Airborne terror

In the silly season there is often a light relief news story about a bird that, having taken a seemingly random dislike to a particular person, amuses itself by swooping down on the poor wretch's head whenever they leave their house. This is hilarious because the story is often accompanied by shaky camcorder footage of said avian hooliganism as the victim screeches and flails. But I don't think it's funny. I think it's utterly terrifying.

I would happily stroke a snake, tickle a tarantula or mollycoddle a mouse. I'm happy with heights and cool with confined spaces. But I absolutely cannot bear anything with feathers. I hate their eyes, their beaks, their claws, their wings - particularly their wings. The sight and sound of them flapping.....euurrrgh. The idea of any physical contact with one makes me feel nauseous; the sight of deranged pigeon feeders swarmed head to toe with them has sometimes made me break into a near run. Once every couple of weeks I have birdmares - recently I dreamt that a large goose kept jumping into my arms whilst delivering a rather withering monologue.

The one thing I will say about birds is that they mostly do a good job of moving in the opposite direction of humans, I assume out of a sense of self-disgust at their intrinsic horribleness. But one kind of bird doesn't even have the decency to do that - dead ones. All the things I am repelled by splayed out on the pavement, beady eyes following me all the way down the road. I few months ago I came home to find a large pigeon had been ripped to shreds and flung around my roof terrace, which is equivalent to a claustrophobic waking up to find they've been walled into the chimney. I spent an hour or so gibbering before my girlfriend came home, took in the scene and strode outside with a bin bag, a dust pan and a grim expression as I babbled encouragement from the furthest part of the flat.

This unmanly neuroses has Freudian roots. My father was an award winning exotic bird exhibitor in his younger days, and for the first 12 or so years of my life kept birds in the house. They would occasionally escape and hurl themselves repeatedly at the nearest window until they smashed their heads in, which I maintain created my phobia. My poor Dad is understandably disappointed that one of his great passions causes his eldest son to nearly faint with terror.

I am happy to take suggestions on how to beat this. It's hugely inconvenient shrieking like a girl at every feathery corpse and I'm not sure I can ever own a cat, unless there are breeds that don't ever proudly drop my absolute worst nightmare on the kitchen floor. Please don't offer any solutions that involve any form of contact - hypnotism or magic pills only.

As this blog believes in the right to reply, here's Mr E of the Eels offering an alternative viewpoint. He's wrong.