Sinister: Quoth the Parrot, "Nevermore!"

One of the best things about a train journey is that, as you totter slowly along like a poodle on a dog track, you get to see the holey fences, knotted washing lines, crooked sheds and chintz curtains of Modern British Suburbia. Even better, at this time of year, if you’re lucky you’ll get to see a procession of Tesco, Sainsbury and Asda’s finest amateur fireworks displays. At one point on my journey home I felt as if I was a passenger on the train from Back to the Future, and the firework lights were bubbles of space glue as the sky melted around us and our line branched into a wormhole. Of course, if that had been true I’d have arrived home on time, instead of having to trudge home in the cold and wet, gloves and hat, at a quarter to bedtime. When I was young dad would nail a Catherine wheel to the side of the rabbit hutch and give us our own little fireworks “display.” Even when it was in full whirl and the rabbits were jumping about with red, yellow and pink sparks reflected in their trembling eyes, I was looking over the fence at the neighbours’ display, which had rockets and bangers, golden fountains and roman candles. The neighbours always have a better display than you do – that’s the law until you’re thirteen and can buy fireworks of your own and EXACT YOUR REVENGE.* So on one hand I was lucky, walking home all by myself, because I could see all the neighbours’ displays at once. I was thinking this to myself as I walked up the hill towards my house when a very noisy firework indeed fell at my feet. The blackened husk lay twitching for a bit and for some reason, instead of going home to put the kettle on, I bent down to have a look at the brightly coloured label that could still just be made out on the battered blob. I looked closer. It wasn’t a label at all. In fact, it seemed to be a feather. The firework turned over and looked me in the eye. “Squawk” it said. “Poetry Parrot – is that you?” The parrot, for it was he, painfully gave a little nod. “Squawk” it said. “But, what happened to you? Are you okay?” The parrot painfully shook his little head, and his one remaining feather fell to the ground. “Squ...” he said. And then he dropped dead. +++ As I dug a parrot sized hole in the back garden, alongside my vegetable patch, I began to think how it was funny that our rabbits always seemed to pop their furry clogs at this time of year too. Must be the weather or something. +++ A mouth full of toast, I opened the letter without getting too much butter on it and moved into the sunlight. It was from Lucy Alder and it ended something like this: ======================= And then I sent him on his way, with instructions to visit... *Mr Robin Stout* ...because I’m reasonably sure that he’ll look after the Parrot and keep him alive – WON’T YOU? ========================== My toast became as tasty as yesterday’s socks. All that responsibility and what had happened? The famous Poetry Parrot was taking composting lessons from the worms in my back garden. Well, it’s not like it was my fault, though, was it?? I felt a little guilty and walked out to the little mound of soil. At least he had gone to a better place. I was reminded of a poem: For an old wizard - by John Hegley your boy brought me to you in the hot Welsh hills I had lost a love and thought I’d not recover soon after my arrival you dished me up a plate heaped to stupidity with mashed potato and all I thought of was her the next morning you got us up at eight (you’d let us lie in ‘til late) and you made us spade out potatoes until that baking day’s close until all I thought of was potatoes As I whispered the last words the very spuds underneath my feet began to a-quiver and a-tremble. I looked down at my feet. I blinked. There was the Poetry Parrot, shaking soil out of his shiny, colourful feathers and looking at me with an enigmatic smile – a tricky job for a parrot at the best of times, even more so when he’s just climbed from an early grave. “Oi, fuckface! What did you go and bury me there for, eh? Down in the jungle next to the carcass of a dishy young toucan, that’s the place for me, not in some stinking vegetable patch in your cocking yard next to your cunting potatoes!” “Oh,” I replied, a little hurt. “I thought that, well, seeing as you were dead... Sorry about that, by the way...” “Eh, what’s that ya big bastard?” cursed the parrot as he dusted off his gleaming plumage. “Sorry, you know, for burying you when you weren’t dead.” “Weren’t dead? Oh no, I was dead alright, good and proper, you could have stuffed a pillow with me feathers and I wouldn’t have even chirped.” “So how come...?” “How come I’m as handsome and gorgeous as ever?? Well, you reading that godawful poem must have shaken up some strange spirits. There’s a lot around at this time of year, you know. And so, the forces of evil being what they are, they decided that as punishment for you for that stupid verse, they’d turn me into a zombie parrot,” he said, fixing me with a yellow bloodshot eye. “So bend down a bit, would you, so I can eat your brains out.” “What?? Eat my brains out?” ”Yeah, sausage head. That’s me job, you know. No offence.” “No offence?! I’ve done you a favour, you stinking bird. You should be grateful! Now, shake your feathers then beat it. Fly to Leicester and to Maddie. I’m sure her brains are tasty, if they’re anything like the rest of her.” “Oh I suppose so,” said the Parrot. “Your brains aren’t up to much anyway mate. Probably taste like rhubarb. I’m off to find some brains full of juicy thoughts. Toodle pip.” Then with a hop and a flap he was off, flying over the charred fences, sooty washing lines, burnt sheds and melted curtains of Modern British Suburbia. So, sorry Maddie, there’s a zombie parrot on the loose and he wants your brains. But I think a good poem would do just as well... Robin x *erm, don't do this kids! _________________________________________________________________ MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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