Most of us are afraid of something. For many it’s getting
stuck in a lift, for others it’s flying or seeing nothing between them and a
bull in an open field. Phobias they’re called and, courtesy of a pub quiz, I
came across a really weird one recently – aibohphobia. I’ll tell you what
that’s a fear of later.
My own, or one of them anyway, is ornithophobia: fear of
birds.
Walking through pigeon infested squares makes my flesh
creep, and they seem to know and make an effort to take off close to me and
“buzz” my head as they do so.
I used to dread as a child being taken to neighbours’,
relatives’ or friends’ houses where there was a budgerigar, because usually the
party piece was to let the bird out of its cage to fly around the room. The
trajectory was unpredictable except for one thing: it would make for me. “Oh
you’re so lucky (s)he likes you and wants to sit on your head/shoulder/hand”
would coo the owner. “For why”, thought I, “doubtless to empty themselves on me to distract
me before pecking my eyes out, how is that lucky?”
Lucky is winning the lottery; lucky is finding that the
person you fancy fancies you back; lucky is being taken to a new a restaurant
and discovering that your favourite meal is their speciality. Lucky is definitely
not
being cooped up in a confined space with a feathered, incontinent, flying
dinosaur descendant.
Brown pigeons like to sit on the rail of our small balcony
where clothes are dried and aired. To keep unwanted little visitors out, we
have what my wife calls “strainers”, fine mesh sliding doors which are a barrier
to mosquitos, flies, wasps and, of course in my eyes the most important, small
birds. Like all Beirut flats we have a second, bigger, swishier, more imposing
balcony adjoining the living area. We’ve enclosed it with windows and put in
some furniture to make a second dining and sitting room.
A few days ago, I was sitting where I am now, at my laptop,
typing. I could hear pigeon calls. I’m used to the sound the brown pigeons make
and don’t believe my pulse rate is severely challenged any more by it, thanks
to those strainers. However, this time, the calls seemed louder than normal and
coming from a different direction.
Then I saw it, a pigeon sitting on one of the chairs on the
big balcony, calling to a friend who flew in while I watched. One of the
windows had been left open. My throat dried up, I could taste bile and my
breathing rate went up. That’s it; my worst nightmare come true, birds – plural
– in the house. Memories of Hitchcock’s masterpiece of horror – the Birds –
came into my mind. Then a horrible thought struck me. What about the connecting
doors? Were they open? Was the flat vulnerable to further invasion? Screwing up
what courage I could, I crept through and shut the connecting doors before
further disaster could strike, having dared myself to get from the balcony
items that flying things could knock over and break. I still do not know how I
walked into that space with nothing between me and them.
Fine, damage limited, but how to get rid of them and close
the offending open window to prevent further incursions. Of course, the classic
Lebanese solution – get someone else to do it.
I rang our concierge, mercifully a country man, who strode
onto the balcony, chased each bird in turn, captured it in his hands and threw
it out of the open window to fly away unhurt. This left a mass of feathers on
the floor, but I can deal with those once disconnected from their owners. We
shut the window and tried all the others. Money and coke (the Pepsi variety,
careful now) changed hands. And that was the end of that
.
Well, not quite, I now obsessively check each window every
morning. We’re on the seventh floor, so I can’t even pretend it’s to prevent
possible burglar entry.
I promised to tell you what aibohphobia is. Look carefully
and see if you see a clue in the word. Yes, you’ve guessed it, a fear of
palindromes. I wish I had that one instead, there really is no possibility I
can see of being invaded by palindromes through an open window.
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