dedalus Posted December 19, 2011 Share Posted December 19, 2011 A parliament of rooks complain vociferously, tut-tutting like indignant counsellors while their carrion cousins, irrepressible crows swoop and dive like Spitfires: an unpopular breed of bird, I know, but dashing fliers with a delinquent sense of fun. Stand and watch them on a winter's day. I love the way, when grounded, they hop, hoppity-hop, exactly like crotchety pensioners, and then take off soaring into the sky, with a kyaa kyaa, such a contemptuous cry, and then they drop a little poop on your windscreen. Bastards! You can't help but swear and admire these rock'n'rollers of the avian world. The broads are soggy under grey December skies. The grass rises in tufts and clumps making for hard walking, making you glad to be wearing your Wellies again, with your old Army jacket, your corduroys, that sense of being safe from the cold. Tottle! (Aristotle), the setter comes to heel with his sad, injurious, accusing eyes: silly boy, that was never any bloody rabbit! (And just how the hell would you know, sir?) he says, clear as a bell, in doggy language, and you give him a rough pat, but he shakes you off, and lopes loosely, wonderfully across the field. Dear old boy! Ten years since he was a tiny pup out of Mirabelle, and she was one of those seven tiny little things my sister and I … my sister! Well, those were those days with the Commander and my Mum, and holidays from that wretched school, and as I trudge towards the sturdy old familiar house I think of the warming dram, of the cold welcome. Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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