I woke up one day with an uncontrollable twitcher itch

It all started with a trip to the feed merchant for pig nuts. I wandered off to read the notices, vaguely considering – briefly – if I wanted to borrow a sixteen hand hunter, euphemistically described as “playful”, and deciding that charming though he looked, I preferred to live. Right beside the board was a stand crammed with wild bird food.

“High energy autumn and winter mix” was on offer. In a fit of mad extravagance (it cost more than £4 ) I bought it.

For over 20 years I believed that at almost a thousand feet above sea level, we had few garden birds.

There was the odd blackbird whizzing about and the occasional sparrow, but mostly we had crows, pigeons and some very noisy owls.

Our bird table stood forlorn, treated to a dollop of mixed poultry corn now and then. That very morning, though, I’d listened to someone forecasting another appalling winter. Hence my purchase.

Tie me down with a horse woggler, what a turn-up.

The goldfinch mafia hit around lunchtime. They may look pretty but those birdies are hard. We had a dozen of them, taking over like a gang on a sink estate.

Next came the coal tits, concerned residents bravely taking them on, followed by blue tits, a pair of nuthatches and a robin.

In the ensuing days we notched up great tits, greenfinches, two sorts of sparrow, something I think is a linnet and this morning, incredibly, a great spotted woodpecker.

This has not gone unnoticed. The peregrine took a goldfinch one day and a pigeon the next. He seems to have moved on though, because the garden is positively teeming.

No bush is free of squabbling birds and I am spending pounds on fat balls, peanut dangly things and the magic food. Plus a new bird book, The Child’s Guide to Birdwatching.

Spotting the rarity has become such a doddle that I can spend hours discussing my birds with innocent bystanders clearly desperate to get away.

There are downsides to everything. Fallout from the table is bound to encourage our furry companions.

Why do I hail a new arrival on the table with cries of joy and not rush around just as happily when Mr and Mrs Rat turn up?

Put it down to prejudice, but plague and Weill’s disease do put a girl off. Fortunately years of farming have armed me with some pretty hefty rat poison, plus very long drainpipes in which to put it. A word of advice – don’t use a warfarin based product that needs to be eaten regularly to be effective.

If a rat has lots of food available it won’t eat enough of the poison, will become immune to it and will soon feature on news bulletins as men in space suits come to combat the furry hordes.

Poison isn’t the only way, though. I let my hens free range round the table bottom, hoovering up any overspill with delight.

Squirrels are another matter, and once again the answer is either murder or ingenuity.

Some anti-squirrel bird feeders are works of art, almost worth having a squirrel problem for.

Being far too mean to invest in them myself, I’ll make my own if I have to. Then hide it when people come round.

It all makes autumn almost bearable. The markets may be crashing and the weather turning foul, but when David Attenborough comes on television showing me amazing things on the far side of the world I can sit back, start another row on my birdwatching balaclava and feel smug.

Want to see something? Look at my birds.