The crows tap danced on our roof. Were they inside? In our loft? Had they borrowed Roy Castle’s tap shoes? I wanted a long lie today. I wanted stillness. I wanted the peace of a holiday morning. You had other ideas. I opened the window, hoping the sound would encourage flight. One did. But the sound remained. The crow wasn’t a soloist. A troupe of tap dancing crows? What were the chances? The noise persisted. T-shirt donned I make my way to the garden. There he is. Defiant. Proud. Belligerent. “Fuck off crow.” I shout whisper. Nothing, if he had fingers, I’m pretty sure he’d flick me the middle one. The decking is littered with moss that he’s dislodged from our guttering. Then I see it. The tennis ball. I throw it at the roof. It bounces pathetically off the guttering and lands at my feet. Did that fucking crow just laugh? It was a definite smirk at least. Energised the next throw hits a foot in front of the crow. He doesn’t wait for strike 3. He takes flight. Instead of the piss.