Suffering Woodstock.

There’s a bird in my garden whose song is all but identical to the ring tone on my mobile. He always sings it just when my hands are occupied, and I’ve little doubt that he and his cronies watch me put down the potato I was peeling, or dry my hands because I was in the middle of washing the dishes, and then fly away tittering or tweeting or whatever it is birds do to celebrate the successful duping of a dumb human.