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.
Posts
