Hitchclockian

I admit that I've become citified. In my metal-windowed cement block of an apartment right above St. Clair Street between 3rd and 4th, I hear enough fire engines, motorcycles, and screaming drunk girls roar by that it was extremely awkward to be home this weekend and be sleeping with the window open and hear this weird hooting, peeping musical flutter outside.

Birds.

Loud, screeching birds. At 5:42 in the morning. No wonder Alfred hated them.

But the jolt from sleep was probably a good thing, because I was having a dream about having to take Ryan into the front yard with me to go shoot Margaret Thatcher and I remember feeling bad about him having to see that so I took him back to the back yard and told him he was a good boy in a happy "Barney" voice. As you do.