Flappy

I have a new pet.

Not one Ill be moving back with me, nor one I have to pet, nor feed, and hell never be allowed in the same room as the cats, because they would eat him. In a single bite.

But regardless, I love hummingbirds, I consider them extremely good luck (or at least have happened to have been around them at points of interesting changefulness in the last couple of years), and if I realised they lived in my bit of the city (quite windy, high-ish up), I would have bought a feeder and hung it in the tree behind the house the very second I moved here.

But I have a hummingbird. His name is Flappy, though that is not set in stone. It might well turn out that her name is Flappy. Whatever the case hummingbirds are ridiculous. Only a finger tall, and buzzing around in zips and zigs and zags and fits and starts, I never realised they stopped at all. BUt it turns out they do, and when they do, they sing a weird song that sounds like this peepy peep whoopy peepapoopy doop and I love them very, very much. And the fact that they live in the city here (and remind me of one of the most insanely amazing roadtrips weve taken while here) pleases me greatly.

Yet weirdly, that in itself was not enough to make me cry – though fuck only knows that it doesnt take much this week.

But looking it up in the bird books in the probably take pile and discovering from them that its name is the Annas Hummingbird? And pictures to prove it?

Well, that pushed me straight over the edge.