Report by Little Jim Ladd (our countrywide reporter of the nation’s underbelly)
Here from the heart of Bristol, I’m speaking with the miraculous robin that can predict the vagaries of the seasons. The question we all want to know the answer to, is how.
“Why are you stripping the berries?” I said.
“Because they can’t do it for themselves.” the robin replied.
“How come you can predict the weather with such accuracy?”
“I’m not sure but my mother was a chaffinch and my father was an albatross. So, with this kind of parentage then I suppose I was given some special powers.”
Not convinced, I ended the interview and watched the robin for a while and was appalled to see it defecate in the flaccid windsock that was suspended high over the weather station the bird had nested in. On its return I asked about its habit and it said, “If the stuff seeps through then there’s little wind, if it flies out the wind is going to be strong.”
I pointed out that the smell would be strong too. At that I left the bird to its ’intuition’.