The bird has flown
10:15am Monday 3rd March 2008
Previously: The Scribbler has been told that Health & Safety rules will no longer allow him to share his broom-cupboard home with his pet pigeon, Arnold. The bird he had reared by hand had to be sent far, far away - to Gateshead. Now read on In the silence of the broom cupboard on the third floor of the T&A building in Hall Ings, The Scribbler and Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), the object of his affections, lay folded in each other's arms in his hammock, which was swinging gently.
Anyone seeing their situation but not their faces might mistakenly have assumed this to be a blissful moment of post-coital relaxation. But Thelma's tear-streaked cheeks and the hapless hack's dark frown told another story.
"I really do miss him, you know," sobbed Thelma. "That bright little face of his. The patter of tiny feet across the lino tiles. His cheerful greeting of Croo-croo' whenever he saw us."
The Scribbler stroked her hair tenderly. "Don't fret so," he said.
"But I do, I do!" protested Thelma. "He was like a child to me. Ray Gusset (pronounced Gussay'), my late, unlamented husband and I never had children. Just as well, the way things worked out. But that hasn't stopped my body clock ticking. You see, Scribbler - a woman gets these feelings, especially when she nears a certain age. And I channelled my feelings towards Arnold. I know you reared him and so, strictly speaking, you're his parent. But I came to think that he maybe looked on me as his mother." And she sobbed again, burying her face in her hands.
The Scribbler caught sight of his own features in the mirror hanging on the wall. His expression posed the question "Is this woman barking, or what?" He was glad that Thelma couldn't see it too and decided it was best not to translate that expression into words. Instead he pondered on the events that had brought them to this sorry situation.
After Arnold was declared pigeon non grata, the Assistant Editor With Special Responsibility for Monitoring Building Hygiene had supervised his capture (which wasn't difficult, because the trusting bird willingly went to anyone proffering him his snack of choice, a rum truffle).
He had insisted that The Scribbler bandage Arnold tightly around his chest and wings, making it impossible for him to flutter, and tie a bit of string firmly (but not too tightly) around his ankles to prevent him kicking.
When this was done, Arnold looked questioningly at The Scribbler. "Croo-croo?" he had asked. Croo-croo?"
The Ass Ed shook his head and tutted. "We can't have him making that racket," he snapped. He'll have to be gagged." And with that he went off to fetch an Elastoplast strip from the first-aid box on the third-floor landing and stuck it tightly round Arnold's beak. The bird uttered a muffled "Foo-foo" and looked surprised.
Fortunately Thelma hadn't been around to witness any of this. Nor had she seen The Scribbler, acting under orders, pop Arnold into a Morrisons carrier and hand it to Rodney Littlehampton, the T&A's business, property, showbusiness and athletics reporter, who then strode off to catch his National Express coach to Gateshead, where he was due to cover a meeting and release Arnold to go native among the Geordie pigeons.
Back in the hammock, Thelma snuffled softly. Then there came a tapping on the window. And another, more urgently.
The Scribbler leapt from the hammock, causing it to swing wildly and deposit Thelma on to the floor. Her look of indignation changed to one of joy as he flung open the window and in waddled Arnold.
"Bless him!" she cried. "He's come home to Mummy!"
"Foo-foo!" said Arnold.
"That stupid Rodney!" hissed The Scribbler. "He forgot to take his gag off. Still at least he's flown home. But what on earth are we going to do about him now?"
To be continued.