The Goshawk Man

There we all were, collectively getting on with the job down at the Continental. I was minding Silas while multitasking, (probably quite daintily) bellowing orders and finding fault, as is my job (some might say whimsy). Stevie C was sorting everything out, decorator-in-chief & co were painting the walls, and the Brite Sparks boys were making everything – brighter, of course.

Our routine was then shaken by Warren bemusedly saying ‘There’s a man with a hawk. Outside. Now.’

Stevie C, Warren, and me pushing Silas in the pram, rushed outside like a motley band of demented sticky-beaks* with nowt better to do. There was indeed a man with a hawk lurking on the pavement opposite. He firmly (obsessively?**) told us the bird was, in fact, a Goshawk. The Goshawk looked sternly at us. So did the owner, who had somewhat callously got rid of his previous bird of some years to replace it with a younger model. In fact, his look unrepentantly said ‘back off, she’s mine’, as Stevie C reached out his hand in a half stroking, half peace-making fashion.



‘Ah, that’s alreet then,’ said Stevie C, ‘I thought he meant a hawk.’

Cue quizzical looks from Warren, Silas, and myself.

‘A plastering hawk. Fer t’put plaster on with. I thought he were a lost plasterer.’

Right then.

Just another episode in the crazy world of the Continental.





*Neighbours circa the Mrs Mangle years.
** He was pretty nice. I saw him again a couple of days later. He didn't remember me: thus I am not as interesting as a Goshawk. I was embarrassed when I had to explain 3 times why I had said hello like a crazy lady in the street.