BACK in our Stratford-upon- Avon days, my wife and I lived in a semi-detached house near the hamlet of Bishopton.

This scratch in the soil near the Worcester Road was the birthplace of Captain Bruce Bairnsfather, First World War soldier and creator of the Old Bill cartoon that somehow managed to bring humour to the horrors of France and Flanders.

Bairnsfather was a man of great character, humour and humanity.

But these epithets most certainly didn’t apply to my next-door neighbour, a miserable individual whose blackness was eclipsed only by the manners of his lavatory panfaced wife.

I could just about tolerate these loathsome creatures but one spring day my attention was drawn to the sound of what appeared to be a heavy stick being struck against the side of the house.

I went outside and saw that my neighbours were hacking away at some caked mud that had obviously been placed there by house martins in the vain hope of constructing a nest.

It would appear that Mr and Mrs Unspeakably-Drab didn’t want to share their precious abode with a couple of birds who had flown all the way from Africa only to be denied sanctuary.

I found this display of meanspiritedness utterly depressing, although was comforted somewhat when no fewer than five pairs of birds chose our side of the building to bring up their families.

I also noticed the irony that while I lived in a semi and couldn’t get on with my neighbours, these little birds lived in a terrace and had no problems whatsoever.

Years later, on holiday in Turkey, I noticed a house martins’ cup of mud above the balcony. Our host, noticing my interest, proudly proclaimed that it was against the law and also bad luck to damage these birds’ nests in Turkey.

Suburban miseries everywhere have been warned.