Every now and again you read about ‘Empty Nest Syndrome’ — a curious affliction suffered by parents who are sad that their children have left home. It sounds like heaven to me. My wife and I should be, well, free as a bird now that all our little ones have fled to university and beyond. Those arduous parent evenings, competitive end-of-term picnics and final warnings from the bursar are already a distant memory. We can come and go as we please, spending weekends learning to grow asparagus. Except that we can’t. Because of Nero.
Nero is a parrot who lives with us and who will still be squawking a decade or so after I’ve joined the great grumpy chorus in the sky. We are chained once more. Any discussion about weekend plans must be followed by ‘…and what shall we do about Nero?’ Then there’s a pause, followed by the realisation that we can’t make any plans at all any more.
We did not choose Nero. We acquired him — he is a green cheek conure — after one of my stepsons bought him from a shop in Newcastle and took him back to the flat he shared with four other male undergraduates. Instantly, Nero was a success; a babe magnet. ‘Would you like to come back to my house and meet our parrot?’ the boys asked the girls. They would.
Then, once university was done and dusted, Nero moved in with us. We had no objections at first — a parrot seemed like the perfect pet: small, clever, no need to walk it.
But pricey even so, we found out after spending £1,500 on cages. The first one was very pretty, with a whiff of Edwardiana about it, but Nero soon worked out how to chip away at the paint, bend the bars and squeeze his body to freedom. This was replaced by a cheapo affair that reminded my wife of a hamster cage. Nero was not amused. So my wife found a whopper designed to look like the Crystal Palace. An antique, easy on the eye, ruinously expensive. We also had to buy a small cage for travelling to and from our cottage in Wiltshire, a journey that displeases Nero so much that once we get there he shrieks for a good hour.
Nero is dictatorial by name and tyrannical by nature. He doesn’t like me at all, but he absolutely cannot tolerate the fact that I don’t like him. It drives him crazy. The more I seek to disassociate myself, the more he wants to be with me.
When I’m working he sits on my shoulder, waiting patiently for the telephone to ring. When it does, he cocks his head and fixes me a gimlet eye. If I make the mistake of picking up the receiver, he first nips my neck then takes a chunk out of my ear before moving round my face and stabbing my mouth until I begin to bleed and hang up.
We could farm him out to friends — those who haven’t been mortally offended by my abrupt telephone manner — but I fear they wouldn’t remain friends for long. If he’s kept in his cage, Nero shrieks to get out. Once out, he spends most of the day perched on and disfiguring picture frames waiting for people to visit. When the plumber comes to call, Nero lands on his head and remains there, digging his claws in, while he (the plumber, that is) fixes the washing machine.
There have been times when I’ve gazed out of the window at the flocks of green parakeets that are taking over central London, and hoped Nero would join them. Be careful what you wish for. A couple of weeks ago during Desert Island Discs (Nero loves music, swaying back and forth and crooking his neck in appreciation of a good tune), he became agitated. I offered him a Ryvita, to which he is normally partial, but he flew off in a huff — and kept flying. One minute he was in the kitchen with me and Kirsty Young, the next he was rising into the sky and disappearing over the neighbour’s roof.
This was a crisis. Neither my wife nor stepson were in the house at the time. They would suspect, justifiably, that I had killed the parrot. ‘Nero, Nero,’ I called in as kindly a voice as I could manage. I began to worry. Nero would realise by now that he’d made a big mistake but if I knew Nero, he’d be too proud to admit it by coming home.
I maligned him. After half an hour high up in a tree, clearly considering his options, he made his choice, fluttered down on to my shoulder and stabbed me in the face. We went back indoors, both mightily relieved. I would love to report that we are living happily ever after, but we are not.
What we are doing is tolerating each other, accepting our mutual lot, treading warily. Compromise underpins every relationship, so I stockpile Ryvita, do without friends and phone calls and keep a handy supply of Elastoplast, while Nero does what he likes. Muddling on is what we all do best. I suppose it was silly to think that things might get simpler in middle age.