I'm watching. Watching to see if it'll appear. Watching to spot something most people will never see. Watching to see something most people could'nt give a shit abot seeing.
The Kingfishers' strange. Orange and blue markings with a stick on beak. It seems out of context in our country. Something beautiful in a world of light browns, dark browns and brown.
Twenty five minutes have past. I'm not bored, just, watching.
I see something. Something blue. Something gliding through the air. I wait, a nervous sweat seeping down the side of my face. Anticipating, expecting, exciting.
A Walker's crisp packet. Salt and Vinegar. Did'nt Cheese and Onion used to be blue? Who changed the colour? When did it change? Why did they change it? Did we have the opportunity to vote on the issue? Whoose election manifesto was it part of?
Was it Labour, Cheese and Onion is a very popular flavour - moving it away from blue could have swung important votes towards them. Being able to control Cheese and Onion and Plain, well that would be the election sown up.
On the other hand it could have been the Conservatives. Trying to con the voting public into thinking both Cheese and Onion and Salt and Vinegar were blue. Maybe this was the first part of a strategy to make all Walker's Crisps blue. Maybe if they'd won the election everything would be blue. Makes you feel kind of blue really. I bet the Labour party were green with envy. When will it all stop, when will the nightmares go away.
I see it. It's smaller than I imagined and dirtier somehow. As though it's been dragged through a hedge backwards. Then another. I check my RSPB Guide to British Birds. It says Kingfishers are solitary birds that always hunt alone.
I look up, there are five Kingfisher's now. All perched on long grass - they must be as light as feathers. Now there are twelve, and two more have just appeared but from out of the water. I believe I am witnessing the greatest single, er no, greatest multiple sighting of Kingfishers in the world ever.
I imagine the fame, the recognition, the honorary presidency of the RSPB. My book "The Kingfisher Man" translated into thirty two languages, top of The Sunday Times non-fiction hardback top ten and the non-fiction paperback top ten.
There are now over one hundred Kingfishers, all perched at various points on the banks of the river Bure.
Another five minutes have passed and there are thousands of them. Everywhere you look Kingfishers. A sea of blue and orange. It is at this point that I decide to check the Kingfisher entry in The Collins Guide to European Birds, the bible for any bird watcher. It states that the Kingfisher is Britain's rarest bird and that numbers are said to be between five hundred and one thousand. I quickly scan the area, definetly thousands with more birds joing all the time.
There is a blue haze floating over the river, like a swarm of orange and blue bees. I look closely at the scene. Some birds fly in, but others appear form the grass, some from holes in the river bank, whilst others appear from holes within trees. Some appear from thin air, almost like a camera trick or some crazy Kingfisher illusion performed by the worlds greast bird magician.
I decide to consult the twitches bible again, free with every new RSPB membership. It talks about the entire Kingfisher population in Europe as only two and a half thousand birds. I must be witnessing some kind of annual conference. A Kingfisher parliament, the Kingfisher Olympics, or maybe even an organised plot to overthrow the Peregrin Falcoln in a vain attempt to become Britain's favourite bird.
Just as I am receiving this dystopian avarian revelation I realise that all the birds are watching me. Every single one. The world's population of Kingfishers setting eyes on The Kingfisher Man for the first time. This will be a whole chapter in the book.
They all then chirp once in unison. A very high pitched stacato chirp, tii, almost as if to say oi, pay attention.
One of the birds, could even have been the first one, moves from it's perch and lands right on my left knee. The Kingfisher man tameth the Kingfisher.
"Hey shithead" it says
"What!"
"Hey shithead"
"What?"
"Move"
"Pardon"
"I said move"
That was it. I moved. Packed away all my stuff inside my camelbak filtration system/rucksack and left. Walked back to the hotel, deflated.
Packed up my stuff and left. Caught the train home, cancelled my RSPB membership immediately and sore never to watch birds again.
Very rude animals
