flights of fancy

Morning at the old chateau.
The Mammy and her son James are sitting in the kitchen.
A little bird flies in the window.
The little bird has bluish yellowy feathers.
Very cute.
She flies up and down seeking a way out.
"Is that a tit?" wonders the Mammy.
The noble Heelers watches the little creature speculatively for a moment.
"I don't think so," he says at last. "It looks like quite a nice bird to me."
The bird is doing the rounds of the room, now on a shelf, now in flight, now orbiting the sheepdog, now perched on a chair.
Neither the Mammy nor her son are inclined to leave their breakfasts to provide assistance.
Enter the Dad stage left.
The little bird takes off, veers towards him and then away, catches the draft, and whirs out the open window to the garden and freedom.
"Was that a tit?" the Mammy asks the Dad.
The Dad ponders.
"It might have been," sez he thoughtfully. "It's hard to be sure. There are several different types of tits. Blue tits, grey tits, long tailed tits, and of course great tits."
"Hmmm," ventures Heelers from behind his cornflakes bowl, "I have a Russian friend who's got those."
Two pairs of mildly censorious parental eyes zero in on him.
You know it's true.
A prophet is never welcome in his own chateau.
At this moment my mobile phone beeps.
It really does.
And lo!
It's a phone text all the way from little old Moscow.
The text reads:
"James,
I liked your articles about Russia.
You really are such a drama queen.
Irina."
Ah yes.
You know what folks.
It looks like she's finally figured out how to stop me publishing our personal correspondance.