Not the season for French hens

Outside my kitchen window there is a bush, planted by my friend Meg. I think her idea was that shrubs would make a loe-maintenance garden, and I think she underestimated just how low maintenance can go, and how out of control shrubs can get.

This one has become a miniature tree, and in autumn it is covered with bright red berries. While I am washing up, I often see birds feeding on the berries: there's a blackbird who is a regular visitor, and there are often bluetits.

But this morning a very solid pigeon perched there, the branch bobbing slightly up and down under its weight. Another pigeon arrived, and there was a flurry of jockeying for position, until they both flew off. A moment later they returned, and then a third joined them, all three close together on a spindly little branch like three stout matrons on a totally inadequate sofa.