It is far too depressing to discuss anything even vaguely related to Crystal Palace right now due to their continuous downward decline. Therefore this week's posting will have absolutely nothing in common with anything in red and blue stripes. I will regale you with a tale from one of my many odd experiences as an English plumber getting down and dirty in Austin, Texas.
"I rang the doorbell. It rang back echoing the tune of 'Stars of Texas' around the small, 1950s East Austin home. Helen answered the door in her PJs, bleary-eyed, squinting so intensely she seemed still asleep. "Hi, I'm Woody with Radiant Plumbing. I'm here to help," - my standard greeting. I followed her, stepping gingerly around the comatose figure snoring loudly on the sofa. We crossed the kitchen and left through the back door.
"Here it is," she croaked hoarsely. It must have been a fun night, I thought. I followed her pointed finger to see what appeared to be a horse chewing on a plastic water pipe protruding from the home. It didn't seem to bother the creature that water was hammering down it's throat from the mauled broken pipe. "Clover," she hollered, "stop that now". The five foot tall Great Dane plodded toward us, soaked through with tongue lolling from side to side outside its gargantuan jaws. The pipe stood no chance. As we stood staring at the dopey dog ambling over to us, I started discussing how to fix the problem. I didn't get far. I became speechless at what I was seeing. Out the corner of my eye I spied a tiny baby bird hurtling toward us from the branch of a nearby tree. It careened out of control straight at us. I ducked but Helen stood perfectly still. I assumed she hadn't seen it through the minuscule slits in her eyes. Just two feet from her head, the minute bird pulled up, hovered for a second and then landed clumsily on Helen's right shoulder.
"This is the third time she has done this," Helen stated proudly, twisting her head slowly to the side to watch her adopted avian offspring. "I call her Buttercup," she said. I was starting to see the floral naming convention in her burgeoning animal farm. Helen began telling me her theory that Buttercup had lost her mother and had decided on a human replacement. As she spoke, Helen became transformed. All vestiges of hangover ebbed rapidly away. Her eyes grew wide. Her voice cleared. She even stood taller, delighting in her newfound friend. She seemed like a new mother. And in return, Buttercup also appeared completely at ease. It stood wobbling slightly on its five feet high perch. Ruffling its feathers, it let out a tiny but heartfelt chirp, not a hint of concern on its feathered face. It was inspiring to watch the obvious love between the two.
I had completely forgotten about the water gushing from the pipe and the mammoth canine Clover now standing by our sides. I was lost in thought, delighting in the touching scene before me. We stood in silence watching each and every movement from our new winged pal. After a full five minutes, Buttercup began raising its wings. She gave a few tiny flaps getting ready for the brave and apparently difficult take off. Holding our breaths, we watched Buttercup take flight. For the first second it seemed as if it would not make it, plummeting toward the ground. But just in the nick of time, Buttercup recovered and began climbing back up. Gaining altitude, it now hovered at our eye level, looking at both of us in a gesture of farewell for now. And in that second, I felt at ease with the world believing that man and beast were one.
Buttercup took one last look at us, turned, flapped it wings then flew straight into the huge gaping mouth of Clover. In one deadly move, the Great Dane had leaped from the ground timing it perfectly to meet the bird mid flight. Our blissful silence ended with a snap of jaws and gentle crunch of baby bones. Neck broken in two, Buttercup fell lifeless to the floor with her murderer slobbering happily above. I looked at Helen. All color had drained from her. She was unable to speak. I mumbled something about fixing a pipe. I don't think she cared. And to be honest, nor did I.
