Bush pilots
know the feeling – away from home
for weeks or months and then back to
being “Mr Fix it” during an R & R break.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the
“mechanics car” syndrome was similar
at most helicopter pilot’s home –
lots of unfinished work around the
house and garden.
The girls were
about 7 and 10 when I fitted the
ceiling fans in the house.
What
refreshing luxury those revolving
air movers were during the warm
summer months. Simply luxury.
No 2 daughter’s
21st birthday was a real opener to
all of us.
I learnt which one of
them actually crashed the family car
about 5 years before and they learnt
about the budgie.
I have forgiven
them about the car – but the legend
of the budgie still lives on.
She who must be
obeyed loved to read the kids
stories at night and those two ankle
biters drank
in every word she said.
Being a
direct descendant from the venerable
Scottish
poet – Sir Walter Scott – she was
eloquent and elegant with words and speech.
I
remember when we first married that
I thought we would make a fortune
when her heritage kicked in and the
money from her writings and poetry
started flooding into our bank
account from the far corners of the
earth.
50 years + on I’m still waiting - no poems
or stories as yet.
I was outside
one evening after starting a two day
job building a patio - which I
nearly completed four years later
and now 30 years later I've just finished.
She who must be obeyed was reading
to the kids in their bedroom.
Suddenly an
unearthly scream echoed throughout
the neighbourhood.
“The budgie has
hit the fan!!!!”
I rushed inside
to see the kids sobbing on the bed
and a big ring shaped blood spatter
at fan height around the room.
Yep –
they all forgot about that new fan when
they let their pet bird out to hear the
story with them.
Being used to
fixing things out west with number 8
fencing wire and chewing gum I
figured I’d better calm the
situation down.
I couldn’t see
the budgie and the blood spatter
around the room at fan level
suggested that it couldn’t have
flown away as it would have been
empty of the red stuff.
Grabbing a
chair I found the budgie completely
dead, head and body
separately flung up
on top of a wardrobe.
So, operating
with the ingenuity of a Las Vegas
illusionist, I pushed the head back
in place,
put my thumb behind it, wrapped a
handkerchief around its neck and said: “
Look - no worries – its only got a
bleeding nose” and wiggled the
lifeless head up and down with my
thumb.
The crying
stopped.
Until that
fateful 21st birthday, those kids
believed that the budgie went to the
budgie hospital instead of over the
fence into the neighbour’s garden.
True story
TC
