And there we were, minding our own business, engorging ourselves on our usual Sunday feast of a quail inside a partridge inside a pigeon inside a pheasant inside a duck inside a hen when suddenly we hear that there’s something tremendously uproarious going on within the fowl community.
Heavens, no! We cried, despair rising. Why, it was only two months ago that there was peril in the piscine community, must the noble regime of ornithology fall also?
Sadly, it was true. Our dear friends in the countryside (we being rather urban creatures) reported repeated aggressive flapping at their heads, heavy peckings, extra-loud quacks.
The birds are rising against us.
What have we possibly done to deserve this? We wondered, as we polished off the grouse and began to tuck into the ostrich-egg omelette. We all considered ourselves bird-lovers - avid twitchers that could spot our kites from our kestrels. Certainly we were not at threat?
That was before Bambi came home with a suspected broken arm.
“Swans,” he said. “Fucking Swans. They cornered me outside Boots.”
That’s when we knew we needed to take action. That’s when we knew we had to step back into action. That’s when we knew it was time for the tenth episode in the epic Trilogy Saga.
We’ve survived interplanetary collisions and the implosion of the sun; we’ve fought off the Steel People and covert aliens; we’ve prevented a thermonuclear warhead from detonation and we scraped through a new year brush with heaven and hell.
But this may be our greatest challenge yet.