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"Nest-Egg"

Piece by piece, with saliva and sticks, mud and moss the sparrows built a nest on our house. For each of the forty-three years Miranda and I were married they came back. Not the very same birds, obviously, but we liked to think they were the ancestors. You know the way a family will go to the same place on holiday each year, and when the children grow up, they take their own families there too. And, year by year I was putting together my own nest-egg. A bonus here, some savings there, they all went in the pillow-case for later use.
Then Miranda’s illness came on so suddenly, and with such force; one minute she was so full of life, the next so weak. The doctor said there was a chance, but we needed time that wasn’t there with NHS waiting lists. The nest-egg was there though, the money to go private.

At times of trouble, family rally round, nephews you haven’t seen for decades stop by to see if there’s anything they can do. He caught me at bad moment. “I didn’t get a moment’s sleep last night.” I said as I rubbed my tired face.
“That’ll be all the worry,” he said, and he was right, but I wasn’t one to show weakness.
“That and those bloody sparrows chirping away,” I said, the way you blame something you know you can rely on to always be there.
But that well meaning nephew of mine, he was there when I got home from the hospital, just putting the ladder back in his van.
“Sorted those bloody birds out for you, Uncle,” he said, giving me a pat on the back. I saw the remains of the nest stuffed in the top of the bin, broken eggs and all. I was too dumbstruck to say anything to him before he set off.

I woke that night to the sound of broken glass, and footsteps in the house. I got up to investigate, but by the time I put the light on they were with me, two brutes hiding their faces with stockings, one wielding a crowbar, the other a baseball bat. It was the bat that was held up to my face as a warning as the other one went through the drawers. Of course, they found the cash, our life savings. And I did what any foolish old man would do, and got a crowbar to the shins for my trouble. I felt ashamed of going down so easily, watching everything slip away with so feeble a fight.

They put an appeal in the paper, tried to find those fiends, and they even raised some money for me. But it was too late to give Miranda anything other than a respectable coffin and a headstone saying how loved she was.


Summer’s here and I look up at the house, where the nest used to be, hoping they’ll come back. But deep down I know I’ll forever be alone.

Very emotional story, that. Poignant.

Thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed it.

As for STW, unfortunately they haven't got funding for a third series, so that's the end of my current TV exploits. I've got a sketch show to send out though, so fingers crossed for that - though Celador have already rejected it.

I liked the way everything went round again to what it was, like the comparisons of the nest-egg and how the man lost what he had in his life.

Even if it was a little pessimistic, it was a clever idea. Reminded me in a strange sort of way of a Mothergoose type nursery rhyme in the first bit, not too sure why though. Did have a moral not too unlike those of Aesop's fables.

Yeah, quality stuff Meka :D

ps How's Shoot the Writers coming along? Did you continue it after the second series?

Piece by piece, with saliva and sticks, mud and moss the sparrows built a nest on our house. For each of the forty-three years Miranda and I were married they came back. Not the very same birds, obviously, but we liked to think they were the ancestors. You know the way a family will go to the same place on holiday each year, and when the children grow up, they take their own families there too. And, year by year I was putting together my own nest-egg. A bonus here, some savings there, they all went in the pillow-case for later use.
Then Miranda’s illness came on so suddenly, and with such force; one minute she was so full of life, the next so weak. The doctor said there was a chance, but we needed time that wasn’t there with NHS waiting lists. The nest-egg was there though, the money to go private.

At times of trouble, family rally round, nephews you haven’t seen for decades stop by to see if there’s anything they can do. He caught me at bad moment. “I didn’t get a moment’s sleep last night.” I said as I rubbed my tired face.
“That’ll be all the worry,” he said, and he was right, but I wasn’t one to show weakness.
“That and those bloody sparrows chirping away,” I said, the way you blame something you know you can rely on to always be there.
But that well meaning nephew of mine, he was there when I got home from the hospital, just putting the ladder back in his van.
“Sorted those bloody birds out for you, Uncle,” he said, giving me a pat on the back. I saw the remains of the nest stuffed in the top of the bin, broken eggs and all. I was too dumbstruck to say anything to him before he set off.

I woke that night to the sound of broken glass, and footsteps in the house. I got up to investigate, but by the time I put the light on they were with me, two brutes hiding their faces with stockings, one wielding a crowbar, the other a baseball bat. It was the bat that was held up to my face as a warning as the other one went through the drawers. Of course, they found the cash, our life savings. And I did what any foolish old man would do, and got a crowbar to the shins for my trouble. I felt ashamed of going down so easily, watching everything slip away with so feeble a fight.

They put an appeal in the paper, tried to find those fiends, and they even raised some money for me. But it was too late to give Miranda anything other than a respectable coffin and a headstone saying how loved she was.


Summer’s here and I look up at the house, where the nest used to be, hoping they’ll come back. But deep down I know I’ll forever be alone.