“Never,†continues the supermodel, waving the little statuette expansively just beyond my reach, “has such pithy cruelty been achieved so quickly from such a position of safety,†she raves. I pause. The audience is beginning to look edgy. I reach for the statue, thinking to retrieve the situation with a short, magnanimous speech on the subject of the responsible use of wit.
The supermodel, however, can’t be stopped.
There are a number of loose bricks in my front yard, left over from the time I decided to build a garden rockery but didn’t have the maths to work out how many square metres of soil I needed, how many bricks to use or how to get to Melways Ref. 45E9, where the garden centre lives. The wounded pigeon and I eyed them with a great sense of foreboding.
Which is to say, I eyed it with a sense of foreboding. He eyed it with the same expression with which pigeons eye everything, which is mild surprise. Blimey, he was thinking. Bricks. Well I never, eh? Coo.
And then, of course, there’s the question of the evolutionary future of pigeons.
A few months ago I reported in these pages that through a series of unfortunate circumstances my editorial consultant had to be confined to the house for reasons of prophylactic hygiene. Consequently, he and I have spent the daylight hours of the last eleven weeks like a pair of isolated lighthouse keepers, which is to say composing sea shanties, threatening to murder each other and periodically going mad.
Today, finally, was his day of release. We parted company after breakfast, I with a promise to stay in touch, he with a placatory wee on the door mat.
In fact, watching him reacquaint himself with the non-carpet universe, I was reminded of how editorial consultants divide their world into four kinds of thing: things to eat, things to kill, plants, and things with which to perform acts which the vet had confidently assured us he could no longer perform, but which every lonely lighthouse keeper dreams of, late at night when the fog is thick and the seaways clear.
It’s possible to forget some things very quickly. Specifically, it occurred to me as I watched him scarper over the back fence that I had forgotten about my consultant’s past habit of turning up to editorial meetings with a pigeon in his mouth.
My first reaction in this situation is always reflexively to wonder if I should have brought a packet of Tim Tams or something.
“Everyday girls with kinky fetishes”
JERRY — How do you feel, Meathead?
MEATHEAD — I think I might have just won the lottery, Jerry. Tell me, how can I become a more particpative element of this shabby pornographic burlesque?
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