One of my routes out of town takes me past a small row of quaint terraced houses. The owner of the nearest one always has his side door open and certainly is a very happy fellow, as, every time I go by, I can hear him whistling joyfully away. And it is very loud. Thing is, he must be almost tone deaf because there has never been any discernible tune. I have fond imaginings of him in there at the kitchen table attentively doing crosswords, mending clocks or perhaps painting an Airfix model of a de Havilland Mosquito, or something. Anyway, curiosity took hold of me yesterday as I cycled past and under the guise of wanting a refill for my water bottle, I went to investigate and discover just what it was that made him so happy. So I popped my head round the corner and was immediately disabused. There, on the back of a chair strutted a bloody great parrot ! Obviously he does not have the musicality of this fellow.