Our two fluff balls sit up to attention, ears pricked and navigating towards our windows, waiting to hear which pane the pests will decide to attack first, while hubby facetiously shouts from the bathroom “They’re back, get the shotty out!”

Suddenly a flutter, then a forthright tap echoes through the house and all of us know exactly where they are. If I’m home I start running towards the particular window acting like a human scarecrow, shooing them away. This works well for about a minute, but the repetitive energy I use is a waste of time. I’m sure these fiends enjoy screwing with my head as they alternate windows all day long until dusk.

Even my felines have no hope of frightening these wretched birds. Cleverly the mudlarks keep high and just out of reach to tease my pets, who practically ignore them now, accepting they’re part of the furniture.

Our verandah and windows look disgusting, covered in acidic, bird soil and spit, not to mention the progressing timber damage.

Cleaning my windows is a huge, time consuming task without the bird intrusion, but now it’s a ridiculously, thankless job. As I clean one side of the home, the birds are assaulting the opposite end. I can’t win. Two days after window washing, you wouldn’t know I had elbow-greased them. Those feathered trolls seem to want to punish me for my efforts and tend to up the ante until again we can hardly see through the glass. I could seriously cry!