The Sound of Spring

If the wind is in the west the M25 comes thru loud and clear as the nonstop snarl-up gives out its static roar.

In winter when the wind bites from the north and east I am safely indoors so I miss the silence. But then it's quiet indoors anyway. Or it is until that difficult-to-define point in the year when the sap begins to rise.

I settle down to sleep and the rustlings start. A frisky wind perhaps, kicking thru the crumbling leaves? A late night duck grazing the hedge as it comes in to land? Or a carefree mouse on a late, late visit? All those little reassuring things that ease the way to sleep.

But suddenly I'm wide awake. There it is again. It's like a hammer blow. Surely I can't have overslept. I open an eye and hope I'm not too late for work, but the room is still pitch black. The hammer blows are coming not from the building site across the river, but from underneath the bookshelf in the corner of my bedroom.

I relax again; it's only mice in the wainscot.

Mice? Hold on a minute; mice can't possibly make that racket. There is a hole, however, where the hedgehogs crept in last summer, and spent many a balmy night snuffling and wheezing under the floor. But what on earth are they building down there, a block of flats?

I lean out of bed, grab a shoe, and hammer on the floorboards. The scraping, snuffling and banging ceases instantly. I pull the bedclothes tightly round me and try to relax back into sleep.

Five minutes tick by. Not quite enough time to get to sleep again, but the hedgehogs obviously think it's long enough. Now they're shredding paper. All in a good cause no doubt, but the scraping and tearing is interfering with those alpha waves I sorely need. It's only a little sound so I pretend the tearing and snuffling is just part of some greater subconscious background music of the spheres until a furious thumping jolts me almost out of bed.

I bang my shoe on the floor with frustrated violence, and now I'm really wide awake. I turn onto my back and stretch, staring into the blackness.

By now I'm worrying about some things I have to do in the morning, and my brain is racing along. Before I realize it I'm struggling to solve all kinds of problems and my brain is whizzing off in all directions.

This must stop at once! I turn over, and snuggle into the sheets, emptying my mind of all its aimless flicker. I scarcely notice the resurgence of the rustling under the cupboard. In fact, I pretend I'm fast asleep, believing the slight sussurus to be the sound of fleeces grazing the fence as millions of sheep I'm counting pass by. Entail, that is, some sudden blare has me wide awake again.

"Quaaark, quaaaark, quaaaaaaarrk!" at blistering volume comes from the pond at the bottom of the garden, followed by a frantic series of splashings, and a dozen ducks all quacking at once.

It is two a.m. by the carriage clock on my chest of drawers as the gang-bangs start on the pond, stirring the hedgehogs down below to renewed vigour.

Noise without; noise below; yet the wind is in the east and I can't hear a thing from the motorway. Here I am, merely trying to get my quota of kip while all around me the ducks are noisily at it on the pond, and the hedgehogs are preparing for results beneath my bedroom floor. It may still be the tag-end of winter but sex has reared its noisy head on all sides.

I turn over, a stray foot pushing into the cold side of the bed. The sharp frosty feel of the empty side of the bed reminds me that sex may be everywhere about me, but it is definitely absent from my bed.

I lie there thinking about sex, the sap rising, and spring lurching towards me from every direction, and now I really have got a problem. How on earth can I get back to sleep with sex on my mind?

I switch on the electric blanket and reluctantly get out of bed for a pee, trying to keep my eyes as closed as possible on the assumption that if I keep them mostly closed I'll stay mostly asleep. Illogical, no doubt, as I am wide awake anyway.

Before getting back into bed I give the floor a good wack with my shoe just for good measure. The ducks seem to have settled. They're probably all exhausted. I'm completely shattered and start to fall asleep, only to be rudely awakened by another riot of splashing on the pond, accompanied by hoots and squeaky barking sounds.

In spite of all the odds the geese have obviously flown in from the arctic circle, dodged the bombs, and the customs, picked up a few dirty stories on the way, and here they are telling all and sundry the good news of their safe arrival.

Twenty minutes later, with the hedgehogs all joining in, and the ducks deciding to go for another bout, and a night jar screeching encouragement I decide to give up trying to sleep and turn on the light. I swear things would be quieter if I lived in the middle of a city.

Half an hour later the ducks and geese have turned to other matters. The happy landing greetings over, the gang-bangs set aside for the rest of the night, all parties get down to a serious bout of territorial aggro, with outraged quacks, and disconcerted honks like the braying of donkeys, coming thick and fast.

As the dirty grey light of dawn gradually oozes around the curtains the racket subsides, and, quite unexpectedly, I fall asleep, only to waken well and truly late for work.

There's no doubt about it; it definitely sounds like spring.

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