My bedroom window, being south facing, reflects the afternoon sunlight and permits discreet observations into the adjoining back gardens. Casual, coincidental observations; whilst plumping up a pillow for example or dusting the sill, when my gaze might be drawn to the lady with the beehive who’s always emptying her hoover bag into the wheelie bin, or to the clanking of the window cleaner’s ladder as it is repositioned under hastily drawn curtains. Or to admire a cat walking along the top of the wobbly fence, past the grey whiskered dog flaked out in the middle of a trampoline. The tidy garden opposite my own, with its small patch of manicured lawn and a couple of freshly turned flower beds is the favourite hangout for an affliction of starlings; whose presence is normally only realised upon their departure, when for some unseen threat, the multitude take to the wing amidst a barrage of squawks and swishing air. I’ve seen the old man with his Tupperware box scattering food for them. He must be in his eighties. I see him in the mornings mostly, when it’s quiet and his laboured breath is visible in the cold air. His baldness is covered by a wide brimmed floppy hat and I’ve only ever seen him in a beige cardigan over a shirt and tie. He has a quiet hoarse sounding voice, which he uses to speak to the birds or to himself, I’m not sure which. He doesn’t tend the garden himself of course, he has a gardener called Martin, who I happen to know has been to prison.