I didn't choose the camp bird collector life

It was 2011 and I was so very, very sheltered when it came to the world of avian ornamentals.

So when my friend returned back to college with what has since been dubbed "The Evil Water Fowl", I had no idea of the impact the wooden sculpture would have on my life, or at least on my bedroom surfaces.

Presumably crafted in the finest woodwork shed Satan has yet commissioned, the bird, with beak open in a frozen shriek, twisted head and large, hate-filled eyes, was not tasteful, nor was it tasteless.

It existed on its own plane beyond the taste spectrum, boggling even the smartest of minds and forcing out the simplest utterance, "Why?"

Naturally, I loved it.

Just as I will ironically watch terrible monster movies and indulge in sequin-soaked Eurovision nights, I find a certain attraction to hideous household decorations.

Little did I know, however, that the acquisition of this splinter-feathered fiend would, in the eyes of my friends and family at least, necessitate my building a flock of scary, funny or downright cringeworthy birds.

The creature was originally offered as a prize for a college-wide competition, but the victor never came to collect the spoils.

Instead, this rejected trophy became the founding fledgling of an unsolicited stream of raptors, parrots and other bird depictions more often foul than fair.

Atop my bookshelf sits this prized collection, accumulated as birthday and Christmas presents, souvenirs from globetrotting friends, or even just "I saw this down the road and thought you would like it" impulse purchases.

There's the chrome eagle dubbed "Eyes of Night" with a landscape of wolves howling at a full moon painted on its breast from (you guessed it) America.

From the other side of the Atlantic sits a demonic-looking seagull from coastal Germany, "protecting" the marzipan eggs inside a glass lolly jar. I suspect it's the likeness of gulls who would feast on the flesh of marooned sailors shipwrecked by the sirens sweetly singing of days past.

On the less fearsome scale is a fluffy chick that used to light up when it was thrown at a hard surface. Unfortunately, the baby deflated, leaving only the rainbow ball inside as a hideous growth on an otherwise flattened body.

There's also a flamingo that gradually grew to several times its original size when dunked in water. Again, by some cruel twist of fate (meaning my own incompetence), the glass of water I soaked this poor creature in was too small, rendering its head minuscule compared to its gargantuan body.

It's as if my loved ones had access to a secret gift registry celebrating my long-term relationship with the obscure and off-colour.

This is a collection to which I have not personally contributed. All of my birds have been gifted by others, aware of my fondness for kitsch, ultra-kitsch and just-when-you-thought-things-couldn't-get-kitschier items.

In other words, I didn't choose the bird collector life: the bird collector life chose me.

My move to Canberra last year only exacerbated this gift-giving. In a city woken by the dulcet tones of screeching cockatoos every morning, it was inevitable that birds would become a common part of local artwork, sculpture and knick-knacks.

I'm sure my friends would gift me the great owl of Belconnen if I had the space (note: not an invitation), but they have instead settled for smaller creative interpretations of the feathered friends that grace our skies.

In every market, in every secondhand store, in every purveyor of fine vintage goods there has passed an item that would blend right into the collection.

I may wind up on a future episode of Hoarders, at the conclusion of which I'll die of malnutrition in my room; the ceramic, metallic, plastic and wooden avian shapes long having since cut off access to the door and windows.

And I wouldn't have it any other way. That such a collection exists show I have friends who understand me and, at the very least tolerate, my quirks.

It has also proven to be something of a gatekeeper for new friends. If, after being introduced to the collection for the first time, someone waits at least 15 minutes before coming up with a flimsy pretence on which to escape my house, they're likely to stick around.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this situation. Other people may find themselves, by accident or design, the recipients of wall-to-wall DVDs, fun socks, posters, model cars, or any other type of collectible.

Easy to buy for and easily pleased, we are the chosen people for whom a gift purchase is only a nugget of tack, quirk or camp away.

What's your weird collection? And how did it start?