It’s the nicest place I’ve ever heard. The trees are in just the right places, and there’s a couple of handy streetlights where the foolish insects so obligingly gather. What’s more, there’s a tree with a nice cavity where we girls can get together for a good day’s sleep.
Monday
We wait until that dreadful sun goes down and the blessed darkness returns. Then we’re out on our rounds. Our way of life is not exactly easy, if you hear what I mean, but the blackness is a nightly challenge that we rise to. I have a map of the nightscape flute-clear in my head and all I require to get through to dawn is a few insects. Say 3,000 of them.
Tuesday
When I woke from the long sleep of winter I wasn’t pregnant. Now I am. And I haven’t so much as set ears on a male. No miracle: it’s the way we do things. The romantic encounter took place late last summer, the time of year when the whole world listens good: the insects seem to fly into your mouth of their own sweet will and the warm air makes flying a treat even in the tiredness of the pre-dawn.
Wednesday
And there he was, the handsomest fellow I ever heard. He sang, he called and I came: together we did the great deed. But winter is no time to bring up a sweet little pup, so I kept his gift within me until the time was right. Spring came. I woke. I flew. Ker-ching! Next month I’ll be a mother, and so will everyone else in our capacious hollow in the big oak. We’re a fine all-female community and, naturally, we all hear ear-to-ear on just about everything.
Thursday
I shout all night but I never hear the sound of my own voice. I block it out by an effort of will and a handy little muscle in my middle ear. That way I hear only the echo, and the echo is my world and my larder. I can hear silence. The insect that makes no sound as he moves through the air is – though he knows it not – yelling “come and catch me!” I have one transmitter and two receivers, otherwise known as ears, and that gives me a cross-bearing on all the other fliers of the night.
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Friday
The jink and the turn and the catch: 3,000 times a night and I never tire of it. I catch the luckless yeller in my landing-net of a tail and perform the classic half-roll in mid-air to bring the dinner to the diner. Not an easy manoeuvre, but I’ve had a million opportunities to practise.
Saturday
A long hard night of flying and shouting, and I’m especially weary now I’m almost ready for my pup to pop. I got back to the old oak, there was my hollow, there were my friends and there was my special place for hanging out. Believe me, it was an audition for sore ears.
Common pipistrelle CV
Lifespan A good five years
Eating habits Whatever sounds good
Hobbies Pursuit and capture
Sexual preferences A good-listening singer
Photograph by De Agostini via Getty Images