Had there been any more of us squinting up at a non-descript bare branched tree tucked into the corner of just as a bland an end terraced house in South Ealing then the police would have probably pulled out the crowd barriers. Eight buff coloured waxwings sat out the occasional shrieks of wind tunnelling down South Ealing Road the way I imagine surfers wait for the next big rise. Riding each pulse before skimming down to a small tree draped with reddish coloured berries which is effectively Waxwings' spinach; gives 'em strength, health and vigour.

And these are hardy birds. Driven over from Scandinavia by hunger, they've irrupted into the UK in roving bands on the look out for waxwing ambrosia - anything red and in berry form. So this means they've dropped into some of the most unexpected areas - car parks, city centre churchyards and a temporary colony of eight, perhaps a few more, outside South Ealing station.

They are glorious birds. Buff, almost pinkish breasts, splashes of Matt yellow on wing tips and tails; that Scandinavian dress sense again, as if they've all seen the same costume designer, each one kitted out in the same thick, gorgeously knitted jumper that every Danish or Swedish actor wears in some Scandinavian noir series. Topped off with a jaunty cockade; they're one of the few birds I know who actually look like they have a feather in their cap.

People of South Ealing look up. There's beauty above.