They keep telling me I look like a giant swift, and then wait for me to look modest and say, “Oh really? How nice of you to say so!” After all, a swift is supposed to be the greatest flier that was ever hatched: the avian Superman, the feathered jet-fighter, the bird of birds. Well, pardon me for not falling off my perch in admiration, because last week I ate one. Having caught it first. Yes, on the bloody wing, how else?
Monday
Elegant. That’s another fatuous compliment. I’m not trying to look good; I’m trying to be superb. And, on my good days, succeeding. I think the swift would have agreed with that assessment in the little time he had between being caught and being consumed.
Tuesday
I’m a falcon, but I don’t go in for brute force, like a peregrine, or finicky hovering, like a kestrel. I merely chase after the fastest and most agile of all birds and catch them. The sky is my buffet: flying insects and the birds that eat them – swallows, martins and you-know-what. None of these is around in your British winters so I drop down to Africa for a while, but when the skies are full again I’m back.
Wednesday
OK, I do a look a bit like a giant swift from below, at least in certain wing configurations. We’re both dedicated to the deadly combination of manoeuvrability and speed, but we can both glide for long, easy passages of reconnoitring.
Thursday
Dragonflies. Who doesn’t love ’em? I pluck them from the air as I go. I extend both feet in front of my eyes and catch them like a cricketer. Eat on the wing – best way – and on to the next. Over the marsh today I was eating a dragonfly every 15 seconds. It was as if they’d been placed there for my convenience.
Friday
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The second good thing about looking a bit like a swift is that other birds assume I really am one. Then I’m among them and it’s all panic and fluttering. Swallows have a special hobby alarm call, shrill and agitated, and they form impromptu mobbing parties. Without surprise on my side the odds are in their favour. Damn it.
Saturday
But you’ll be wanting to hear the swift story. It began with height – effective aerial combat almost always does. I spied a group of young swifts playing hooligans along the street in the local town. I flew a few lazy circles. Oh look, there’s another swift. Come and join us! Come and play! So I did. But not before I’d picked out the one I wanted, the one always at the back of every screaming party. And then all at once I wasn’t a swift at all; I was the Greek letter Ψ, descending at ridiculous speed. Bang! The swift was in my talons and as soon as I was back in straight and level flight I was eating the best bits. Not every meal you eat in the sky is disgusting.
Hobby CV
Lifespan Five years or so.
Eating habits Only the best aeronauts will do.
Hobbies Aerial nonchalance.
Sexual preferences She’s as elegant as me and just the slightest bit bigger.
Photograph by Denja1/Getty Images