On avian friendship
Kind, very kind, but not nice – even emphatically not nice.
(Archive of Lady Catherine de Turnips, entry 4663-2; discovered by Ekaterina Repina, BA, MA)
My dear friend,
As you probably remember, my most recent humble abode is a glorious shoebox of a flat within earshot of Big Ben — and several other, less postcard-like, but still curious, sets of sounds. This geographical location has certain disadvantages: numerous ceremonies are less of a matter to observe, but more of a matter to be aware of, just like one needs to keep in mind the schedule of the tides for a coastal walk. The most interesting feature, however, is not the buildings in the proximity, but the people.
Today, I would like to say something about one of my neighbours — at least one of them, for now.
Kind, very kind, but not nice – even emphatically not nice.
My neighbour upstairs is a human version of a crow, and I think I can call him a friend. Like with any avian companionship, one can never be sure. One can only be grateful.
He is an eighty-year-old antiquarian. Vocally proud of his working-class alignment, he has the intonations of a late-twentieth-century BBC presenter. He assures me that he listened to the radio too much when he was young – somewhere between Essex and Kent, central London and Glasgow music shops – and that it gave him his voice. He listens to the radio constantly: from the shipping forecast to cricket matches.
“English people invented cricket to give them some idea of death,” he loves saying to me. I have zero understanding of cricket.
For now, he forgives me.
Often, he drops his gifts by my door: a glossy magazine, a century-old postcard, a singing mug.
Never knocks, just leaves those offerings there.
He has a weekly rota covering London flea markets.
Monday: Covent Garden.
Thursday: Spitalfields.
Sunday: Brick Lane.
Sometimes, I accompany him and inevitably go away with another gift he has decided I am in need of. A mid-century string of faux pearls. A mug. A silver spoon.
He buys broken watches. He repairs them to give to his own selection of charity shops.
He measures temperature in Fahrenheit, especially when in the heat of the summer. He wears pretty much the same attire both indoors and outdoors, even in the middle of the winter. When he sees a white wall, he wants to put something nice on it – preferably a picture. When he sees a nice picture, he wants it. From time to time, when I accompany him on his rounds, he asks me to assist him in a noble effort of non-buying more pictures. He inevitably buys more and adds them to the piles scattered around his tiny flat. He frames them himself.
He is sceptical towards the parakeets in St James’s Park.
“Happiness is when a pelican catches a pigeon” he says from time to time.
By our postboxes, we talk a lot about modern London antiques, where relationships are built over decades, centuries-old pieces are sold for a tenner, a coffee pot becomes a puzzle, and Tudor rings lifted from Thames mud are streamed online by Chinese influencers.
He uses his postbox to store things he wants to keep downstairs, normally silver spoons. He has an international reputation in silver spoons. Upstairs, his flat holds the rest. Mostly, silver spoons as well.
He knows the years when the window tax was active by heart: it affects the price of the silver spoons.
My neighbour upstairs is a human version of a crow. I think I can call him a friend. Like with any avian companionship, one can never be sure. One can only be grateful.
Yours sincerely,
C. de T.