Birdsong.

To listen to the sweet symphony of birds singing in the early morning and early evening is one of life's greatest pleasures. When I see the brightly coloured plumage of a bird and listen to its specially composed, conducted and performed music, I find it incredible to think that I once ate other species of the feathered musicians. They are my friends, and I would rather die than eat one.

The beautiful, sweet serenade of the evening bird symphony takes place with each bird sitting in their specific tree, dressed in their smart, feathered suit of clothes playing their piece. The gilded beaks pour forth a fountain of trilling notes sounding as wonderfully delicate as the tiny droplets of rain suspended from the railings of the park.

In the Midlands, there are very few of the coarser, duller sounding birds. There are hardly any crows to caw out their death-like dirge and cast the black shadow of their feathers across your window pane to depress you. There are very few ravens, the larger relative of the crow, to swoop down low over your head emitting its shrill scream as it goes, startling your heart almost to a stop.

There are, however, innumerable pigeons, sparrows and song thrushes. There are even quite a few swans and mallards, pedalling furiously up and down the River Soar like the traffic down Western Boulevard. Although these bird cannot sing awfully well, their course up and down the river is certainly a treat to the eye of the enraptures spectator.

Authors and essayists write about pleasures all the time. Cigars, chocolate, sex, food, sleep and even newspapers. All are common topics of pleasurable essays. Why then not birds and their symphonies? Every evening, they arrange themselves into orchestras, only to be overlooked. Surely, though, their voice is infinitely better than any sound a human being might make.