Earlier today, Karen called me from downstairs, and on the way down, I spotted a hen blackbird sitting on one step. To my surprise, this turned out not to be what she was calling me about (that was to heave the basket of laundry into the car).
Opening the front door, the bird hopped down to the sill, then after a cautious look around for feline psychopaths, flew off, looking just a bit tatty around the tail.
In the dining room, however, there was a massive explosion of feathers, and more, with blood, behind the sofa. And a stray egg at the bottom of the stairs. The amount of detritus and the apparently intact state of the bird as it flew off were hard to reconcile.