No longer flappy

Dead birds give me a severe case of the heebie jeebies, imbued by a childhood that always had a) cats in the house and b) no shortage of blood-curdling screams from my mother and sisters whenever a gift was presented in the form of a no-longer-flappy ornithoid. The screams from my little sisters upon finding one particular dead bird only to see it open its eyes moments later will haunt me forever.

What, then, is the compulsion that made me crouch down next to one on the street, with a little plastic figure and some blu-tak? Blip, that's what. (It's head was missing too, making it a little less threatening for some reason.)

At what point, I wonder, should people start to worry about my sanity?

Erm, probably now.