If my teenage son hadn’t mentioned it one grey morning this week, I’m not sure I’d have noticed, having been too caught up in the January doldrums. But he was right: there’s a new fullness to the soundscape here on our urban housing estate. “The birds just sound louder,” he said, scanning the rooftops, “more enthusiastic.”

“Go on then, what are they?” he grinned, giving me permission to perform my party trick. I closed my eyes and listened. Sparrow. Robin. Wood pigeon. Wren. Blue tits – a bickering winter flock of them – and, there, the see-see-see of long-tailed tits. “Which one makes this sound?” he asked, and whistled a long, descending note like something falling from the sky. “They’re my favourite.” “Starling!” I said. Right on cue, one made that exact sound somewhere above us, confirming his perfect impression.

I am forever grateful for Simon Barnes’s brilliant book Bird Watching With Your Eyes Closed for teaching this urbanite the calls of nearly all our common birds. It’s an especially useful skill in our maze of terraces. There are few trees or front gardens, and the birds that are here are furtive, hard to spot. But tuning in has taught me just how many species we share our space with.

Listening at this time of year reveals the absences. Thrushes tend to start singing in a particular order – mistle thrush, song thrush then blackbird – but I’ve only heard the mistle thrush so far. We have a resident male somewhere who is now usually up and belting out his repetitive phrases during my dawn visits to the bathroom. Absent too are our usual hordes of chittering goldfinches, many of which overwinter in France and Spain. No rollicking, bumping calls of chaffinches yet, and I’ve only heard the great tits once or twice. The first piercing screech of the swifts is still months away.

Still, the year is turning. Things are waking up, and I’m grateful for the reminder to listen, for the treat it offers now and for all the future delights held in memory. Thanks to Simon, another glorious year of listening (and impressing my son) lies ahead.