My wife is sitting at the kitchen table, looking at her phone and talking to me about the next day’s lunch plans.
“What are you cooking for our guests?” she says.
“Whatever you buy,” I say.
“You couldn’t possibly shop and cook,” she says. “That’s not the sort of thing you do.”
“It’s the sort of thing I do the whole time,” I say. My wife sighs, and thumbs her phone.
“Make me a list,” she says. Behind her head, on the other side of the kitchen window, a parakeet is hanging upside down from the bird feeder. If my wife knew, she would be very unhappy. As far as she’s concerned the seed she puts out is for native species only.
“How many people?” I say. She tells me.
“We don’t even have that many forks,” I say. A second parakeet lands on top of the feeder. It’s meant to be parakeet-proof, but they don’t seem remotely put off. I decide it’s best to say nothing.
“You stay here and relax,” my wife says. “While I go out and do everything.”
“On no account should you look behind you,” I say.
My wife lifts her head from her phone and turns. “You bastards!” she says. She leaps up, runs to the window and pounds on the glass. The birds pause to look at her for a moment, then continue extracting seed.
“They’ve learned to ignore your fury,” I say. “As we all have.”
“You don’t belong here!” my wife shouts.
“So colourful,” I say.
“Shut up,” she says.
Twenty-four hours later, our guests arrive. The middle one and his friend also appear to be joining us. I look in the cutlery drawer. The fork slot is empty.
“People will just have to sit where they sit,” my wife says.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say.
“More chairs!” my wife says, clapping her hands as if to summon some kind of retinue. Behind her, a parakeet is swinging from the feeder. I lean over to the middle one’s friend and point.
“Say nothing,” I say.
“About the parakeet?” he says.
“Agghh!” my wife shouts. She runs outside, picks up a rake and swings it in the direction of the bird. Some guests have seen her do this before, and some have not.
“Is everything OK?” says one.
“He says it’s anti-immigrant,” my wife says, waving towards me as she steps inside.
“Because it is,” I say.
“They come over here,” my wife says. Behind her the parakeet is perched on next door’s security light, waiting.
“Where do they come from?” a guest says.
“They escaped from the set of Doctor Dolittle,” my wife says. “The pricks.”
“I think it was The African Queen,” I say.
“Neither of those things is true,” says the middle one, consulting his phone. Outside two more parakeets land in a tree. I pull a garden chair up to the table, and sit.
“They are a bit out of control,” a guest says.
“He likes them,” my wife says, pointing at me again.
“I do,” I say. “They bring a certain vibrancy to the area.”
“Some say it’s the fault of Jimi Hendrix,” the middle one says, looking at his phone. “For releasing a breeding pair in Carnaby Street.”
“Nonsense,” I say.
“How do birds even have babies?” the middle one’s friend says. “Oh yeah, eggs.”
“Can I quote you?” I say.
“We should eat,” my wife says.
“Others claim they were freed from George Michael’s aviary,” the middle one says, “during a late-night altercation with Boy George.”
“What year?” a guest says.
“Still others say the great storm of 1987 is to blame,” the middle one says.
“You mean it blew them here?” a guest says.
“I think they have a lot to contribute,” I say.
“They need culling,” my wife says. “Everyone help themselves.” Several guests stand and pick up plates. Outside half a dozen parakeets have gathered along the back garden wall, flashing green in the afternoon sun. Another lands. I turn to the middle one’s friend.
“Oh yeah, eggs,” I say.
“I forgot,” he says.
