They think I can’t see them. Little do they know that this high shelf in the corner is the perfect perch from which to survey my territory. Thankfully they never dust up here, so I sit undisturbed among the fluff and cobwebs, observing the world below. But it’s not like I’m alone up here - oh, if only! Unfortunately I’ve been sentenced to share my roost with this flock of misfits. Crushed up against each other with barely an inch of personal space. It’s unbearably claustrophobic. Completely unnatural. After more than twenty years together on this shelf we’ve learned to make the best of a bad situation, but I’d be lying if I said they don’t still irritate me daily.

The eagle’s the worst - he thinks he’s God’s gift even though the point of his beak has snapped off and he’s lost more than a few tail feathers. And the kestrel tries my patience somewhat. He’s simply pathetic, still lost in an endless identity crisis triggered by one clueless kid who called him a hawk a few years back: get over it, son; if you paid more attention you’d know they use far worse slurs these days. The cockatoo - oh don’t get me started on the cockatoo - I swear there’s not a single braincell in that frothy, flouncy head of his. He spends all his days admiring his ridiculous dusty quiff in the cracked mirror, like some has-been rockstar. I must admit I do feel a certain sympathy for the raven, however - he’s been most carelessly left facing the wall for years now. What kind of a life is that? He rarely complains though, a very humble chap for whom I have considerable respect. And I do make a point of updating him from time to time for which he’s always most grateful.

Next Thursday it will be exactly ten years since I left this shelf. An entire decade! An era! Almost three natural lifespans for my kind. Of course in those days, life was very different. In those days the room was ruled by Miss Downie, a bright-eyed old bird with the gentle coo of a wood pigeon. Each morning we would watch as she handed out paper, chuckling to herself at the chorus of questions regarding that day’s subject matter. As pencils were sharpened, the anticipation mounted - what treasures of the natural world might they draw in this lesson? The pine cones with their intoxicating smell of resin? The iridescent conch shell that whispered secrets of the sea? Or might it be our turn to be plucked from the shelf and swoop into the spotlight? We followed Miss Downie with our beady eyes as she hobbled across the room. With a quickening heart, I delighted in every endearing detail as she drew near - the wrinkly wattle wobbling beneath her chin like an old turkey, the grey curls of her plumage, the gnarled branches of her fingers reaching up towards the shelf…

With my head still spinning it would always take a moment for the fledglings’ faces to swim into focus. Young mouths gaped wide, accompanied by a contrapuntal chorus of is it real, Miss? is it dead, Miss? can I touch it, Miss? My appearances always caused quite a stir! As the hysteria died down I would steal a glance at these curious creatures in return. They were so much bigger than they looked from the safety of the shelf, their chubby faces peppered with pimples, their clumsy feet like hulking great tree stumps. And the voices! Mon Dieu! Their joyful squawks were loud enough to be heard from even the highest branches of a lofty pine. When I cast my eye over their drawings, sometimes I smiled, sometimes I shuddered. Let’s just say it’s fortunate I have always been blessed with healthy self-esteem.

But my role went far beyond that of an artist’s muse. Whenever a small fledgling sat silent and sullen in the corner, Miss Downie would whisper the magic words: if you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, maybe you’d like to tell the owl? He’s a very good listener. Due to basic matters of respect and confidentiality I cannot disclose any details, but the stories I have heard could fill a book. And some of the tales would make a taxidermy eye weep. Loneliness, bullying, parents splitting up; week after week the poor souls spilled out their sorrows, comforted by my stoic silence and soft feathers.

But those days are long gone, as is Miss Downie. I suppose it all began the day Ms Hunter swooped in with her gaudy sheen and sharp beak. She lived up to her name - stalking through the classrooms, scanning every corner for prey. I remember hearing her talking about Miss Downie in her strange, foreign tongue: not results-driven; not hitting her targets; not adhering to the competency framework. She’s had her day. Her laugh quietly crackled like the first burning twig of a forest fire.

In the following weeks I observed changes to Miss Downie’s perch. Her finely grained slab of oak was soon buried beneath stacks of paper. At first I thought it was just seasonal, but as the months went by the papers only piled up more, like dead leaves in autumn, the bottom layers rotting into mulch. Miss Downie became more nocturnal, still awake and hunched over the paper-strewn perch long after the fledglings had left for the day. Her song changed. Her gentle coo became a heavy sigh like the November winds. Sometimes, as the moon rose, I would hear her sniffing, whimpering like a small animal trapped in a snare. The fledglings changed too. Their raucous springtime chorus was muted to a dull murmur. They no longer asked questions. They no longer laughed. Sometimes I would catch one of them gazing up at the shelf between yawns, perhaps remembering the thrill of our last encounter. But it was fleeting. Get on with your work, Miss Downie sighed. If you don’t finish shading the photocopied circles accurately before the bell, you’ll have to complete it for homework. Next week there will be an assessment. Ms Hunter is not happy with your progress.

It wasn’t long after that Miss Downie vanished. The Hunter paraded through the room with her latest catch - a noisy woman in a shiny suit, both of them cheeping and chirping about grades and league tables and standardisation. Since then, they have come and gone in rapid succession: a Miss Smith, a Mr Lamont, a Mrs Crawford, and too many others for my ageing brain to name. As a species, they seem to have much shorter lifespans these days. It’s hardly surprising - their habitat has degraded at a worrying rate. There are more empty chairs too - many of the fledglings seem to have flown the nest. I hear they have migrated to other rooms, lured by the promise of high-value degrees, good career prospects, well-paid jobs. So here I sit, among the dust and cobwebs, with only my memories to comfort me. A few portraits of me and my companions still hang high up on the far wall, but most have been torn down. No sad fledglings are sent to me now - they’re left to stew in their misery, slumped and scowling into their tiny screens, then given demerits for not engaging.

I know our days on this shelf are numbered - we’re taking up space. We’re creepy. We present a health and safety risk for learners with allergies. Each day I patiently await our fate. The eagle and the kestrel are both in denial. The cockatoo is oblivious of course. I’m still considering how best to break the news to the raven. But I know it could come at any moment - the pounding of high heels on wooden floorboards, the looming approach of a yellow rubber glove, then the ominous rustle of a black plastic sack.