The parrot down the hall - Chloe - is working herself into a hitherto unknown state of hysteria. I do not know the reason for the hysterics, but hysterical she is. I can upset her slightly by returning up the stairs back to my flat. If I want to upset her a bit more than this, I set my food processor to "high". The level of excitement she's currently displaying can only be the work of another parrot. Or possibly a sparkler up her parrot bottom. I don't really want to speculate.
Actually, Chloe isn't a parrot at all - she's a cockatiel. I assumed she was a parrot because she squawks a lot and occasionally says, "I love you". One memorable summer, she sang non-stop Celine Dion. That's not cockatiel behaviour. But, after having chatted to her owner (who remains nameless to me, merely signing each year's Christmas card "From number 42"), I ascertained that her name was Chloe and she was a cockatiel. I didn't think to establish her owner's name or species, sadly.
Anyway, Chloe is hysterical, and for once I don't think it's my fault. That is all.
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