Why happiness lies somewhere between boredom and fear

Every morning, my husband and I ate breakfast on our verandah. The crumbs that fell from our toast began to attract the birds. First, it was the bravest of the brave: a female superb blue wren we called Juliet. She began to bring her flashy partner, whom, of course, we dubbed Romeo. Then a trio of grey thrushes. All of whom we called Geoffrey (Geoffrey Thrush, geddit?) – fat Geoffrey, thin Geoffrey and just-right Geoffrey. Thin Geoffrey grew so tame he would sit on our shoulder and snatch flying insects from in front of our eyes.

After a while, we began to spread oats on the verandah, as there was now rather less toast than birds, and this attracted a flock of bowerbirds. The males have magnificent blue/black plumage with a luxurious sheen, yet the birds themselves are oddly hunched, with hooked beaks and a suspicious, almost sly demeanour.

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To this history buff they looked like puritanical Elizabethan courtiers, so we called the two males Walsingham and Cromwell. Their harems – with greenish-yellow markings – were Lady Anne, Katherine of Aragon and Jane Seymour. The scrub wrens were all called Mrs Mop and the king parrots who landed one afternoon and demanded their due became Pegleg Pete, Pretty Polly and Scaredy Cat. All the crows were called Russell, of course.

The birds banished boredom. We spoke quietly and moved slowly so they would grow used to us and continue to bestow the pleasure and privilege of their company. For an hour or so every morning, we found the perfect happiness point between boredom and fear, until the phone rang and chased them all away.

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