The one where it ends well

The Grumpy Olympics continued apace today - this time interview subjects and editors were among the competitors.

And the poor bird died. It was chirping this morning when I got up and although I tried to hand-feed it (following the sage advice of yesterday's bird woman) by the time I went to check on it later in the morning, it had gone to a better place - or at least a place without bastard cats. And yes, big old sook that I am, I did have a wee cry.  

But the day got better when the sun came out and my friend Rachel came over - it's her birthday tomorrow so I baked a cake and after a walk with His Highness in the town belt we sat in the glorious sunshine and ate and gossiped.

Other good things that happened today: a commission from Taste Magazine to eat and drink my way though the Wairarapa and another for one of my Seoul stories from a Hong Kong-based magazine. Speaking of Honkers, today I finally got around to contacting the airline and tourism body to organise the famil I won as part of the travel journo of the year thingy. Am hoping to also get to Europe on this trip so let the planning commence.      

And I have just returned from my first - and last - IPL session. There's no need to look it up - it basically means 'painful facial treatment that I should never have let my facialist talk me into'.

Am off to lie down with a glass of wine and a cold compress. I may be a while.

Today's visuals c/o Rachel.

   

Birdlife

The Grumpy Olympics were in full swing today - everyone from colleagues to the chick at the bookstore to the receptionist at my doctor's surgery seem to be enthusiastically competing.

Having blown out the cobwebs with a post-work run, the Hound and I found, as we rounded the corner to our street, a bastard neighbourhood cat attacking a poor defenceless bird. I raced over and snatched the tiny bird from the jaws of the stupid cat and legged it home. What I know about our avian friends would barely fill a post-it-note, but I somehow managed to get the bird into the laundry.

Bristol of course, was fascinated so I had to lock him outside while I trawled the internet for a local bird rescue organisation. I eventually tracked down a very nice chap who, unfortunately, focused only on rescuing injured ducks. He managed, however, to put me in contact with a woman in Upper Hutt who, despite being in the bath (!) calmly talked to me about the bird's injuries - the loss of most of its tail and wing feathers and a munted foot - and suggested I find a large box, fill it with newspaper, bowls of water and softened dog kibble and leave it be. It would, she said, be stressed after its ordeal. It's not the only one.

The agitated tweets coming from the laundry seem to have stopped; either the poor mite has passed or the dark, warm box is working its magic. I shall check on it before I go to bed.

Here's a photo of it shortly after the dramatic rescue, spurning our offer of water and bread. If you were in the vicinity of Mt Victoria tonight, that demented woman chasing a cat down the street was, indeed, me.