Pedro and the 67 amigos arrived on a determined colonisation campaign a few months ago. He deployed squads to each crevice of the house, roof, cladding and every other potential nook. Despite offers of bonuses and favourable treatment, no suitable access could be established. Orders were given to make holes in softer wood, ignoring the chicken wire ramparts in place. No success. Eventually a tactical stand-down was ordered and a nest constructed in a nearby tree, securing the next generation of sparrows.
This morning, a human stumbling into the kitchen prompted a startling flue flail of ash and creosote. Pedro, ever the belligerent leader, had personally taken the new frontline, and found himself inadvertently cleaning the flue in disgust whilst attempting to extricate himself from a dark and dangerous experiment. Some hours later, finding the skylight oddly impenetrable, he was found, exhausted, feebly attacking a screen. Twice. Procured in a towel, he was surrendered to the garden, furious, embarrassed and muttering about the Geneva Convention.
The 67 amigos continue to check every other option in a vain hope of saving face. Pedro has vanished. The fledglings will no doubt be shortly mopped up by their family and sworn to secrecy forever.
The incident will never be referred to again.
