It was raining the day that I went to a rental viewing for my current unit. Thick, heavy drops that seemed almost viscous. It smelt faintly of steamy eucalyptus. Back then, Covid had just exploded and everyone who stepped up in the queue to view the place was wearing the obligatory white surgical masks. The real estate agent looked supremely unenthusiastic at having to be there. She backed herself into a corner so as to not share space with any potentially sick renters. We all stayed a few metres apart and I couldn’t help but wince if anyone coughed or sneezed around us.

I got the news that my rental application was accepted and several weeks later I moved in. I live alone and I rarely have visitors. There was a large back deck at the rear which looked out over the grassy backyard and the quintessential hills hoist. I could hear the sound of the local birds calling to each other. I could also hear magpies warbling and singing to each other in the background.

I soon discovered that the magpies seemed to enjoy human contact. One day, I walked into my office, where I had opened the windows to let some air come through and found a large, plump magpie perched defiantly on the top of my printer. He was glossy and fat and we stared at each other for a moment or two. I asked him what he was doing and he tilted his head to the side, seemingly puzzled as to why I would be upset. He decided not to press his luck and flew away.

Most recently, I had my back door open while I was doing laundry. I had changed my sheets and went back to the washing machine. Unbeknownst to me, a magpie had found it’s way inside and had pooed all over my clean doona cover. It had escaped from the scene of the crime before I got there, but when it came time to take my dry clothes off the hills hoist, I discovered the culprit. Gleefully hanging upside down and swinging back and forth from a pair of my clean knickers. He stared at me, looking simultaneously guilty but pleased with himself. I now view the laundry process (and my magpies!) as an occupational hazard. They love to sit around my feet while I hang  laundry out and I talk and whistle to them. I would like to feed them, but I worry that they might forget how to hunt or forage for themselves.

Quite recently, I walked out onto my back deck, seeking some winter sunshine. I glanced down into my garden. There were twenty five magpies gleefully digging up grubs in the grass below. As naughty as they are, they have become a sort of family to me. They like to cause trouble but they sing beautifully. I whistle back to them. If they were only house trained, I would invite them in more often.