Dotsey Villa (our ‘umble abode) has no front lawn — unless you count the five-foot-wide strip along the roadside at ground level, which is hacked/mown approximately once a month by a crack team of council hitmen. Technically, though, this stretch of urban greenery belongs (if it belongs to anybody) to the downstairs tenants, and they’re welcome to it, discarded beer cans, dog poop and all.

Our living room uPVC picture window, however, looks out over the lush verdure of the Park View Home for the Bewildered and, if I set my binoculars to ‘happy medium’ I can, without leaving my seat, look right inside the browny-yellow trumpets of their wilting daffodil patch. Which was right where the action was earlier this evening.

As tough-guy actor Ray Winstone might have put it, things were starting to get a bit ‘tasty’: two blackbirds were arguing over territorial rights. Beautiful whistlers they might be, but they can be quite fierce when riled.

Blackbird number one (we’ll call him HomeBoy) was merely defending his home patch against intruders. We think he’s nesting under a yellow privet bush, so there could be a few little blackbirds around soon.

Blackbird number two had a shifty look about him and was obviously trying to muscle in on HomeBoy’s turf. HomeBoy was having none of it, though, and, after a brief stand-off, flew at Shifty, who promptly dived for cover into the middle of the daffodils. The gloves were off: serious fisticuffs (fistibeaks?) were about to begin.

HomeBoy watched as Shifty hopped nonchalantly round the far side of the daffs. Shifty stopped, cast a furtive glance behind him, turned and hopped round in the (h)opposite direction. The combatants hopped round the daffodil patch a couple of times before Shifty decided to seize the advantage by launching himself at HomeBoy. HomeBoy flew right back at Shifty and they rose about five or six feet in the air together, a blurred flurry of wings, before crashing back to the ground. HomeBoy dealt Shifty a rapid succession of jabs with his beak and, not surprisingly, Shifty slunk off again.

By now, a small crowd had gathered: two starlings, pretending to forage in the long grass; a wood pigeon perched on the fence, presumably reminiscing of his own glory days before too many fights left him punch drunk and unable to do more than head-bobbing and uttering a monotonous five-note coo; and Mrs HomeBoy, who had emerged from under the privet to nibble a few dandelions and cheer on her hero.

Shifty was back, but HomeBoy was ready. Another airborne tussle ensued. Shifty was soon looking bedraggled. HomeBoy waited on the pergola, like all good tacticians, determined to hold the higher ground. One feeble comeback later and it was all over. But Shifty couldn’t resist having the last word. “I’ll be back,” he mouthed (or so it seemed), “and next time I’m bringing some crows with me!”