Today, I was out and about in town enjoying a sunny New Zealand spring day. Indeed, the temperature is predicted to hit 19 deg. The forthcoming summer is expected to be dry and hot. Generally, the winters in this part of New Zealand are wet, very wet. Thus, the land gets a good soaking that is conducive for the growing of stuff and especially for grape trees (don't ask). Martinborough, which resides in the Wairarapa district, is renowned, due to a fortuitous combination of factors, for the production of a range of fine wines. I'm starting to regress.
As said, I was out and about, but I was not alone; on this occasion, I was supported and abetted on this excursion by the lovely Mrs. Saxon. Normally I eschew the pleasure of shopping with 'da missus' for reasons that many married men will find only too familiar. Mrs. Saxon's style of shopping is distinctive and eminently frustrating; thus, she picks stuff up and regards it with a penetrating beam of diligence before putting it down. And so, the cycle repeats interminably. A shopping 'outing', which would normally last an hour, for normal folk, lasts all day. Please feel my pain. However, on this particular day, I had a get-out clause. Later in the day, I was scheduled to take my mother for a medical appointment at the nearby hospital. Thus, my time of intensive shopping was severely restricted- mayhap there is a god after all, and he is male.
Being of a magnanimous nature and feeling benevolent at the prospect of a severely curtailed shopping extravaganza, I decided that I would take my wife for cake and coffee. As I approached the establishment of 'Comestible Heaven/Haven', I espied a severe injunction upon said establishment's wall, inscribed in thick felt tip pen. It stated boldly: 'DO NOT FEED THE FEATHERED BRETHREN'. And whilst I pondered the unusual prose, a small fantail alighted upon my broad, manly shoulders; thereafter, the cheeky critter (for it is none other) flitted and sat defiantly just within the café environs. The fantail regarded the Flaxen-haired one with baleful yellow eyes and cocked his/her head to the side before delivering a goodly shit. On expending his/her/them wad, the bird got to the business of garnering lost crumbs and crusts. It wasn't long before the staff noticed the freeloader and began the tiring and fruitless task of removing da bird. To be honest, from my perspective, they were on the losing side. Every attempt to shoo the bird from the establishment was met with utter disdain from our feathered friend as it hopped from floor to rafter and back again. The usurper was not inconvenienced at all and continued to feed throughout. Of course, the gaping open door the staff hoped the bird would bugger off through merely acted as a 'Beacon/ Bacon of Hope' (there was a piece of bacon on the floor). What a great example of animal adaptation, and I could not resist rewarding the cheeky interloper with a chunk of cake, much to the chagrin of the wait staff.
The Moral of the Story:
Leave unto the fantails what belongs to the fantails. And do not shop with Mrs. Saxon.
It is very commendable that you include our little feathered darlings so carefully in the current gender naming. That's the minimum we can expect (if you don't suggest some shopping with Mrs. Flaxon).
ReplyDeleteI'm moving with the times. Funny, the fantail didn't seem to care.
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