Bad Mouth Bear.

Mel paid me a visit today, and as she was due to arrive at about the time when it’s getting dark, I turned the security light on over the porch at the corner of the house.

All the time she was here I kept hearing a vague squeaky sound coming from the general direction of the front door. I put it down to some odd acoustic aberration and ignored it. When she was going, however, the source of the noise became apparent.

Bedlington Bear spends his nights in the porch, having sat on the lawn all day watching the trees and the birdies.

‘What the feck do you think you’re playing at, ya feckin’ eejit?’ he yelled at me as I approached, in a voice that is squeaky but commendably strident.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

‘Problem? Problem? What do you think the feckin’ problem is, ya great galumping feckin' gobshite? The light! The light’s the feckin’ problem. How’s a bear supposed to sleep with a feckin’ great 60 watt bulb shining in his eyes? Would you like to borrow one of my brain cells 'til you remember where you left your own?’

‘Sorry, Beddy.’

‘Humph!’

The light is now off and the little man is sleeping peacefully. He was quiet as a mouse when I went out for my walk tonight. (And so was the vole which was eating the remains of the bird food on the greenhouse window sill. It’s usually a wood mouse that has his supper there. Maybe they went ten rounds over the privilege.)

You might remember this picture of Bedlington taken during the summer. He was in one of his better moods that day.