If someone murdered a member of your family, then passed the body to another who in turn cooked it for a third party to enjoy as a meal - whom would you hate most of the three?


Would it make if a difference if the cook was a craftsman and delivered a spectacular dish for the diner? And would it matter the diner finished every morsel and really appreciated all the effort that had gone in to preparing the meal?


I ask because last night - in fact very, very early this morning - I believe I was visited by a flying angel of vengeance, in the form of a CUCKOO!


I have lived nearly all of my 39 years without any memorable encounter with these creatures. Yet in the past few weeks I have twice crossed paths with what anoraked 'twitchers' would call Cuculus Canorus.


On the first occasion, the bird was silent. And hot and tender and partly caramelised and served with the sweetest baby asparagus. Delicious. I showed it the utmost respect by washing it down with a toothsome Pol Roger.

This a.m. the bird was neither silent nor tasty nor demanding respect. It was a loathsome intrusion into my home. Sitting smugly under the eaves, it sang. "Cu-coo, cu-coo." And sang . . . and sang . . . for hours. Until even the fretful seagulls could take no more and tried to drown it out.

It only had the one song. And it performed it with metronomic precision for hours, with no change in pitch, harmony or tempo. It nagged like toothache or Portsmouth fans giving it the Pompey Chimes. The whole family was awake and on a short fuse. Then it was gone.

Was this visitation coincidental to my fine meal? I think not! Was it a spirit of the star of the a la carte menu? An avenging relative? Who knows!

Was it inspired by Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven"? Possibly. Am I now free of it? Quoth the cuckoo: "Nevermore!"