The Cartford Blackbird

How the weeks do roll. The blackbird still calls in the Cartford trees but the original buccaneer, golden-beaked and glossy-plumed, has become a gaunt, furtive shadow, worn down by weeks of chasing after spouse and offspring. In the words of the song, that's what you get for making whoopee.Enjoy his singing whilst it lasts. Early in July it will falter, then cease. You may hear a faint, heartfelt, 'Thank God for that,' as our lad staggers away for a well-deserved moult (or malt?) but dawns and dusks will be eerily silent until next spring.So let's raise a glass to the Cartford Blackbird. We who long ago lost our golden beaks and glossy plumage in the cause of domesticity, salute you.And here's another Cartford salute. Many years past, a stone's throw from our favourite inn, lived a handyman called George. One day a newcomer to the village, already known as a reluctant payer, asked him to fix a clock. At teatime the customer called to collect the newly-fettled timepiece. 'I'll not owe you much for that bit of a job,' he grunted.'Oh I don't want paying,' said George. 'Just give my kids a shilling apiece.''That sounds fair enough.''Right,' said George. 'Here John, Tom, Mary, Agnes, Fred, Alice, Bob, Annie …..'