17 Feb 2010
Did you rebel against school uniform in your teens and start to add ‘extras’ ? Around 17, I was under the illusion that my bright yellow M&S cardy gave me the all the insouciant rebelliousness of a young James Dean. An impression which I sought to enhance by always turning up the collar of my pale green mackintosh - passed down to me by my raffish cousin, an oral hygienist in the RAF, who allegedly serially seduced young women by letting them know (confidentially) that he 'worked for the government’ but would then steadfastly refuse to say any more about it.
His best mate (who he had schooled to call him ‘James’ in blond company) had several wonderfully placid black Labradors that would always pad along calmly a pace or two behind The Master. My parents always had pets too - well, to be pedantic, a succession of strays - of varying pedigree, demeanour and ability to reciprocate emotion. There was a sad works cat which had had far too many kittens in its short life and now just wished to be left alone quietly underneath the bed. There was a fox terrier (ish) who, as soon as he got excited at all, would start chasing his tail in demented circles, and if the excitement continued would also start to bark at it quite angrily as it continued to run annoyingly away from him, until he collapsed in a panting and unfulfilled heap. And there was once a pet snail that left messages for my mother on the kitchen floor - if only she could decipher what they meant.
My favourite, though, was Percy the Pigeon. Percy had damaged a wing and so was duly adopted, and being temporarily relieved of all flying duties, was happy enough to walk around the kitchen for a week or two, skilfully dodging feet, while repairs were effected, occasionally walking out into the yard where he could look up and count his brothers out and then count them all back in again. Eventually he recovered enough to rejoin them, but never forgot his nurse and would occasionally pop in. Now the kitchen led out to a small hall, and the door to the yard was off to the left, but this did not faze the returning Percy, who banked in with a hard right turn and much frantically flappy braking to make the occasional spectacular entry if the kitchen door happened to be left open. He never stayed long, though - only flying visits...
His best mate (who he had schooled to call him ‘James’ in blond company) had several wonderfully placid black Labradors that would always pad along calmly a pace or two behind The Master. My parents always had pets too - well, to be pedantic, a succession of strays - of varying pedigree, demeanour and ability to reciprocate emotion. There was a sad works cat which had had far too many kittens in its short life and now just wished to be left alone quietly underneath the bed. There was a fox terrier (ish) who, as soon as he got excited at all, would start chasing his tail in demented circles, and if the excitement continued would also start to bark at it quite angrily as it continued to run annoyingly away from him, until he collapsed in a panting and unfulfilled heap. And there was once a pet snail that left messages for my mother on the kitchen floor - if only she could decipher what they meant.
My favourite, though, was Percy the Pigeon. Percy had damaged a wing and so was duly adopted, and being temporarily relieved of all flying duties, was happy enough to walk around the kitchen for a week or two, skilfully dodging feet, while repairs were effected, occasionally walking out into the yard where he could look up and count his brothers out and then count them all back in again. Eventually he recovered enough to rejoin them, but never forgot his nurse and would occasionally pop in. Now the kitchen led out to a small hall, and the door to the yard was off to the left, but this did not faze the returning Percy, who banked in with a hard right turn and much frantically flappy braking to make the occasional spectacular entry if the kitchen door happened to be left open. He never stayed long, though - only flying visits...
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