This morning our garden resembled something of a wildlife reserve. There was an enormous swarm of flying ants, and, as a result, a flock of doves (do doves come in flocks? or something more beatific?), a troup of monkeys with babies, seven hadidas, and an over-excited cat and two dogs.

Bevies, apparently. Doves come in bevies. Or in cotes, doles, dules, flights, or piteousnesses.

Very cool site - must be sure to refer soon, in casual conversation, to a cartload of chimpanzees, a congregation of crocodiles, a nuisance of cats, and a volery of birds.

I digress.

I enjoy having wildlife pottering around our garden. We have two woolly-necked storks who visit regularly. I enjoy seeing them.

I do not, however, enjoy the wild geese. They like to call loudly from the treetops early in the mornings. The call of a wild goose is not a melodious thing. A few weeks ago I totally lost it. It was 5.30am, I was 9 months pregnant and Not Happy to be Woken Up. Had any of the neighbours chanced to look out of the window at that particular moment they would have witnessed a short, angry, rotund person in a nightie yelling and jumping angrily around the garden, hurling sticks upwards into the trees.

I did finally chase them off. And hurled myself triumphantly back into bed. For a further three minutes and 47 seconds until the Small People began to wake.