I want to get one thing absolutely clear before we begin. I am not loud. I am expressive. There is a considerable difference, and the fact that certain people — neighbours, council officials, anyone who has ever stood within thirty feet of me at seven in the morning — have failed to appreciate this distinction is, frankly, their problem and not mine.
My name is Toni. I am a sulphur-crested cockatoo. I was hatched in 2001, which makes me twenty-five years old, which in cockatoo terms means I am in the prime of my life and have opinions on essentially everything. I lived with my family for twenty years. Twenty years. I watched my family grow up, I learned everyone's routine, I knew every creak of every floorboard and I had strong feelings about the television remote being left on the wrong side of the sofa. I was not a pet. I was a member of the household.
And then the neighbours moved in.
I will not pretend this is an easy chapter to write about, because it is not. New neighbours arrived, and apparently my voice — my perfectly normal, entirely reasonable cockatoo voice — was considered a problem. A complaint was made to the council. My family, who loved me, were put in an impossible position.
They tried to keep me quieter. They changed my routine. They covered my cage at unusual hours. They did everything they could think of, because they were trying to protect me and protect our life together. But here is something important that I need you to understand: when a cockatoo becomes stressed, when its world becomes unpredictable and its voice is suppressed, it doesn't simply go quiet. It turns inward. The anxiety has to go somewhere.
It went into my feathers. I started plucking them. If you look at me now, you can see the bare patches on my chest and back — the physical record of a period in my life when things were very hard. Feather plucking is what happens when a bird like me has nowhere to put its feelings. I am not ashamed of it. But I want people to understand what it means.
My family made the hardest decision a family can make. They rehomed me. Not because they didn't love me. Because they did.
And that is how I arrived at Woodmeadow Garden Centre on Kettering Road, Northampton, where I have discovered something I did not entirely expect: it is rather brilliant here.
For a start, nobody tells me to be quiet. This alone is transformative. I am permitted — encouraged, even — to be entirely myself. My crest goes up when I am excited, which is frequently. I make my feelings known on a variety of topics. People come to see me specifically because I am like this, which is, I must say, the correct attitude for everyone to have.
My feathers are coming back. Slowly, in patches, at their own pace. This is what happens when the stress lifts — when the world becomes predictable again, when you feel safe, when you know your voice is welcome rather than a problem to be managed. I am not the bird I was before everything happened, but I am becoming something. Something tougher, perhaps. Something that knows its own worth a little better.
Now. About Woodmeadow. I have had time to assess the place thoroughly and I have thoughts.
The tearoom is excellent, and I say this as someone who has been watching the humans who visit it. They arrive tense and they leave relaxed. This is a measurable improvement and I approve. I have heard that a certain black cat has strong opinions about the tearoom window chair. The cat and I have an understanding — she considers herself the senior resident, and I consider myself the most interesting resident, and we have agreed not to test this in open confrontation. We are both correct.
Mrs Bojangles and I have a respectful arrangement. She ignores me, I ignore her, and we both pretend the other one doesn't exist while being completely aware of exactly where the other one is at all times. This is called diplomacy. We are both very good at it.
The visitors are, on the whole, acceptable. Children are my favourite — they have not yet learned to be reserved about their reactions, so when they see me they simply react with their whole body, which is enormously entertaining. Adults are more complicated. Some of them approach me with great confidence and then become less confident quite quickly. Others are nervous from a distance but warm up. I find all of this deeply interesting. I am an excellent judge of character and I form opinions within approximately eight seconds of meeting someone. I am yet to be wrong.
The garden buildings — those handsome timber sheds and log cabins from www.taylorsgardenbuildings.co.uk — are something I appreciate on an architectural level. Wood. Proper wood. The smell of it, the warmth it holds, the way it ages. A cockatoo from the eucalyptus forests of Australia has an instinctive relationship with timber, and I find these structures deeply satisfying in a way that is difficult to articulate. If I could have one as a personal residence, I would choose the log cabin. High ceilings. Excellent acoustics for screaming into.
What I want to tell you — and this is the thing I most want to say — is that Woodmeadow is a place that lets things be what they are. The antique shop is full of things with history. The craft cabin is full of peoples handmade crafts. I have heard the carwash is excellent. And me, Toni, a twenty-five year old cockatoo with a complicated past and a crest that goes up when I'm happy — I am here too, and I am welcome, and that matters more than I can tell you.
I am loud. I am opinionated. I have bare patches and a twenty-year history and more personality than most humans I have met. I am, in other words, exactly what a Woodmeadow resident should be.
Come and find me. I will form my opinion of you immediately.
Please don't try to stroke my head without being introduced first. I have standards.