We definitely take birds for granted. I'm talking our wee feathered friends, of course, not the sort that wear stockings and 4in heels. I've been doing my bit to see them through the tough weather this winter.

Breadcrumbs, bits of fat carefully cut from last night's dinner, dried fruit and porridge oats. With the exception of the fatty bits cut from the meat and the breakfast bacon, these are all healthy options.

I don't know what the cholesterol level of birds tends to be, but I haven't seen that many who are so fat they can't get off the ground. Just because that robin sitting on the edge of the plate looks fat doesn't mean it is. Apparently they fluff their feathers up in order to trap layers of warm air to keep themselves warm – unlike the other kind of bird who goes shopping or gets a fur coat given to them.

Robins for miles around gather in the plum tree and the adjacent conifers at about 8am and sit gazing at the kitchen door. A family of blue tits has joined them, plus a few thrushes and a couple of blackbirds. The wrens have taken up permanent residence in a hole in the wall behind the tangled fronds of a Virginia creeper.

It appears that news of my regular contributions to their winter rations has spread far and wide. It used to be only one or two robins. Bearing in mind that birds can't read and the only web they come across is woven by the local garden spider, there's definitely a communication issue here.

How does the news spread so fast? Did they merely spot my plate from a great height or did they see the crowd gathering? I know a hawk has top notch vision and can see from miles up, but can a blackbird, a blue tit or a thrush?

It is a well known fact that birds use the Earth's magnetic field to find their way around, so perhaps they tune into the metal fork I use to scrape their food on to the plate. Or perhaps they're telepathic; those little tweets are not really saying anything except: "Hey you. Tune into my brain. Have you seen the porridge oats? And there's bacon this morning." Think sat nav, with feathers.

During the recent cold spells, I must have been their equivalent of social services. Never mind the winter heating allowance, these guys were shivering in their feathers and starving.

How difficult it must be to hammer rock-hard ground with your beak only to find that the worms have burrowed pretty deep, got out extra woollies and curled up as snug as a worm can be.

Anyway, I think I'm the birdies' equivalent of meals on wheels, though I don't need wheels to cross the yard and lay out the grub. A pair of stout slippers does the job.

In effect, the birds are pretty lucky that I do not demand any accompanying paperwork for my services – not like us poor humans.

Being of a certain age, I had reason of late to be presented with forms issued by the Department of Pensions and Employment. These forms are the size of a novella but badly written and totally devoid of a storyline. And meant to be confusing.

They are not user friendly. I'm not bragging here, but I think I can say I'm a pretty articulate person. OK, not as pretty as I was, but still articulate.

Anyway, I've read the forms through again and again. They are dreadful!

I called Help the Aged, who agreed with my conclusion that they are designed to deter people from claiming, especially those who've paid into the system all their lives.

It strikes me that the birds in my garden have themselves a far better deal.