‘There was a bird flying round the house,’ the Boxer told me. She had no answer for what happened to it?or, how did it get in and out.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but it looked quite startled.’
‘i expect you were startled too.’
‘I expect I was,’ she said vaguely, ‘but it was early.’
These days I suspect a slight detachment from reality. Lost in her thoughts she will not answer plain questions deflecting them with vague answers like, I can’t think right now, or I don’t know, you decide. Till I’m unsure whether this is simply because of the effort needed to answer or decide, or whether she actually doesn’t know anymore.
Things have slipped that once were sacrosanct. Take reading the newspaper cover to cover and marking up television programmes not to be missed.
Now, not only are the TV choices not made, but the ability to swap channels seems to defeat her too.
To be expected at 94 and a half, I guess.
A thick layer of black soot all over the fireplace and once pale carpet in the living room corroborated the bird story. Something came down the chimney bringing all the soot. The mystery of what happened to it remains but the window and sill in the back bedroom have black feathery imprints in the shape of a large bird..
Neither of us mention the myth that birds in the house presage death. Perhaps when the boxer closed her eyes in the sunshine after her ice cream she was thinking of that. More likely she was ruing the choice of flavours. The parlour is closing for the winter so there was very limited choice instead of the usual combo of mochaccino and raspberry ripple, it was monster’s blood complete with wriggly worms (I ate the worms) and white chocolate.