When we checked on the neat little nest this morning there were all the chicks, squished in and feathery, fast asleep. Mags, the vet nurse who’d come to give Oscar his physio, was delighted to see them. It’s not a ver common sight in a built-up place like Hong Kong.

After my run and shower I came downstairs to the dramatic scene unfolding in our little garden. The nest was now completely empty. The parent birds, who have devotedly shared care of the chicks, sat squawking their heads off to encourage their fledglings who were at various stages in their flight training around the garden. The two strongest chicks were hopping about in the branches of the big tree and trying out some acrobatic loops and turns.

The third chick then fell from a low branch down to the flower bed below and sat there, dazed, for a while before disappearing we know not where.

It was the plight of the tiniest chick that caused us the most anxiety, though. He/she/they sat there by his now deserted nest, unsure of what to do, with their back to their parents.

We all shouted encouragement, mesmerised for a good hour while this tiny, underdeveloped little ball of fluff gathered its spirit of self-preservation and intermittently hopped around our little tiled square jumping and flapping its wings while it tried to get the hang of this flying thing. His siblings were intermittentenly resting and trying out their new-found freedom, having a chat, perhaps sledging and bullying their hapless smallest brother or sister.

The Chinese Bulbul, who has a clutch of eggs further back in the garden, scolded its fellow tenants for making so much noise and making sure that they didn’t approach too close to her own nest. Large brown and black butterflies swooped around, also relishing the scene and the fact that I was too drawn in to chase them fruitlessly for a photograph.

At 3.30 I finally had to go for lunch and to the shops, fearing that the poor tiny bird would have collapsed, exhausted, by my return and made a tasty snack for a passing rat or rat snake. Or Raffles.

When I came back with the shopping, the parents were still there, and sibling three sat meditating in the middle of a pot plant. The tiniest chick was perched on the rim of a saucer of water we’d put out. Hope was fading. I went upstairs to do a singing practice and from the top of the house had a great view of the two biggest chicks perched on the neighbour’s roof terrace gates where they chattered and fought and swooped. They had undergone an extraordinary transformation in the last couple of hours, from fluffy, gawky fledglings to mini birds with the same plumage as their parents: black crest and red vent but as yet no red whiskers.

Down by the kitchen an hour later the garden was empty except for two proud, devoted parents. Where was the tiniest chick? Had he been taken off and eaten by a neighbourhood cat? Would he be prey for the black kite that circles the rooftops? What on earth would he do if it rained?

Finally, just before sunset, I caught sight of him up there in the tree. Perched on a branch. Resting. He made it, thank goodness, safe for the time being at least.