A third window opened from a news studio in Cardiff. It was the weatherman, Derek, whom Margaret had had a secret crush on for twenty years. He held up a flashcard. It wasn’t a weather map. It read: "You're a high pressure of pure joy, Margaret."

Margaret sat in the sudden silence, her cold tea forgotten, the robin at the window now joined by a dozen more. She wiped her eyes and picked up the phone. This time, the Wi-Fi light was green.

The screen filled with rolling green hills. And then, emerging from behind a hedge, was a very confused-looking sheep. Tied to the sheep’s back was a small, waterproof speaker. The speaker crackled to life, and the voice of the legendary naturalist, Sir David Attenborough, filled her living room.

“We interrupt our regular programming for a very special, unplanned bulletin,” Priya said, a nervous smile on her face. “This is for Margaret Penhaligon, of 12 Primrose Lane, in Cornwall.”

A window popped open from a studio in Salford—her niece, a librarian in Manchester, holding up a giant, hand-painted sign that read “HIP HIP!”

“David,” she said, her voice steady as a broadcast. “Did you really bribe a cameraman with gummy kangaroos?”

“Mum,” he laughed. “It was worth it. Happy birthday.”