A Time of Joyous Bliss

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, ten for a time of joyous bliss.

So goes the old rhyme about magpies. Many people don't like them. They're big loud scavengers and they eat just about anything, including eggs and nestlings from other birds.

I do like them. I like all the crow-type birds for their intelligence and mischief.

In my dream last night the magpies were part of a huge national scam.

People had gradually begun to notice vast wire cages all over the countryside, full of magpies. Although the perpetrators of this strange crime had tried to keep it all secret, eventually the reason was discovered and I found out about it.

Hens had become very expensive and hence the hens' eggs in supermarkets were being replaced by magpies' eggs.

It gave me a strange, haunted feeling. I awoke to the sound of the birds' wings flapping and flapping and beating and beating against the wire of the cages, with a gale blowing outside the bedroom.

There were hundreds and hundreds of magpies. I hope they were in multiples of ten.