The Devil Comes Knocking

 

The banging on the door was heavy and most insistent. Whoever was there wanted me to come quick. It took me a moment to realise that the banging was on my door, but as I got up I realised it was actually coming from the kitchen.

Somebody was in the kitchen!

Not somebody something.

A manic creature which was shaking the kitchen to pieces.

I rushed from where I was sitting hearing things crash behind me as I did so, was that the lap top that had just fallen to the floor?

The banging noise in the kitchen was coming from the washing machine which had gone into a spin and was battling with an uneven load. I switched the machine off and as it sighed to a halt I looked around at the damage.

The washing machine in its shaking and rattling had managed to dislodge the wooden plinths from the adjacent work units. They now leaned out just above the floor revealing builders rubble in the crevice beyond.

‘Won’t take a moment to put them back,’ I thought after extracting my sopping dressing gown from the machine and draping it on the bench outside.

After sweeping up some of the rubble first and wiping the tiles I set to work. The small plinth on the right hand side slotted back easily into place. Cheered by this I now attempted to put the other plinth back.

It wouldn’t move.

It was jammed.

I tried to shift the washing machine but it wouldn’t budge.

The few second job was already eating away the minutes.

Eventually I ended up like an upside down crab on the floor using my feet to push it back into place.

The plinth didn’t move.

I was afraid if I took it out that I would never get it back in place.

But I did.

Minutes later I repeated the crab dance on the kitchen floor.

And to my great joy the plinth slipped back into place.

‘Hah!’ I thought. ‘I did it!’

I was thinking this as I opened the cupboard door under the sink to throw away the onion peelings and carrot tops and tails.

To find that the bin had been shaken from its place and failed to open out just as the peelings dropped from the plate.

After that was fixed I dared to check on the lap top. It was fine. It had been a pile of books that had tumbled to the floor after my hasty exit.

Phew!

Small Birds Need to Fly Even Lower!

 

The birds don’t sing anymore in the evenings.

I had thought it was the season, or perhaps the disappearance of birds that had caused this emptiness and quietness.

It was while on a recent visit to Barnsdale Gardens as I said my goodbyes to a friend that she chanced to mention birdsong. She could hear them merrily tweeting away in the gardens behind us whilst others she said were singing in nearby high trees.

I strained to hear.

But all I could hear the low rumble and whoosh of cars on the road. I did hear the flat call of a duck from somewhere close, and I could hear my friend’s voice as she turned and pointed in the direction of another small bird she could hear.

But I could hear nothing.

It was quite a shock to realise that something as precious as birdsong had vanished and was unlikely to ever return.

Whenever I read the I Ching it usually tells me, whilst at the same time emphasising my lowly status in the world that the small bird must fly low for its song to be heard. A lovely poetic piece of writing.

So it seems small birds need to fly even lower, and perhaps even perch on my shoulder for me to have a chance of ever hearing them again.