I've got Fleeting Bambi syndrome

THERE are two bright-eyed crows living above my attic room. Each morning I hear them chattering away in an uncannily human manner. They are like a pair of old men complaining at a bus stop.

It’s messing with my mind. When my alarm clock radio goes off at 7am, I mix their crow banter with the Radio 4 news report and for a fleeting minute believe I hear them discussing NHS health reforms.

It turns out the bird world isn’t keen on Andrew Lansley’s plans either.

The wildlife around Kendal and the conversations of my feathered neighbours, who I have named Edgar and Allan, have started to make me feel as though I’m living in a Disney film.

I had a second attack of this feeling – which I call Fleeting Bambi Syndrome – a few evenings ago as I laid on my bed reading.

There was a tap, tap, tap, tap from the part of my room I refer to as ‘the library’ – a two-foot square corner heaped with books and scrawlings. To my surprise a large, brilliant red peacock butterfly flew out my twentieth century American literature heap and landed coyly on my leg.

I have no idea how this paper-thin creature survived winter, or how it had ended up in my room, but it was stunning. So graceful.

Not like me.... sigh.

Less than ten minutes after leaving the comfort of the car to embrace spring, this weekend, I had managed to fall flat on my face.

I tripped over and landed on a tree root. I’ve now got bruised ribs and trampled third division dignity.

Snow White and Cinderella would both have rolled their eyes. To anyone watching, who is also prone to Fleeting Bambi Syndrome, I must surely have convinced them they were watching Dumbo.

And to add a final insult to injury, while I was waking up this morning I could hear Edgar rubbing it in.

“There’s nothing that can be done for GPs, they are in an impossible position.

“At least they haven’t embarrassed themselves like Helen though. What a pleb.”

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