Making a Cassowary out of a Peahen

It's a nice day, today. The leaves are out on the trees. (Did I mention that, already?) I found a pair of rhinestone hairpins clipped to the curtains in my bedroom. They aren't mine. Someone must've left them. One's pink, and the other's green. They look sparkly from a distance, and cheap as dirt close-to. You can see the glue holding the rhinestones in. Maybe I'll take a picture of them, later. In case anyone was looking for them, sort of thing. I can put up a FOUND ad.

When I first moved in here, the curtains were pinned together. I left them that way for ages, but then someone took the pin. I can't find it any more. Ah, well. I didn't need it, anyway.

Back in December, I told a story about how I was at Birdland (or maybe the Edinburgh Zoo), and I got bitten by a cassowary. I think that story was wrong. How could I possibly have been bitten by a cassowary? It would have caused a huge scandal, if that had happened. Cassowaries are dangerous birds. You don't just leave them wandering around. Someone could get flapped to death, or have their eyes pecked out.

If it wasn't a cassowary, what was it? It was a bird--of that much I'm sure--but of what sort? I thought it might've been a caracara, and I'd just got the names mixed up. Cassowary; caracara--you could make that mistake, right? Except, the thing that bit me looked nothing like a caracara. I remember it clearly: it was like a jumbo-sized pheasant, with a kingfisher strapped to its throat. Its body looked brown from a distance, and vaguely iridescent close up. It had a great bony crest on its head (or maybe a grotesquely overdeveloped cere), and a long poakety beak. Its feet looked like it had clown shoes on. They were way too big for its body. It was tall, like an ostrich, but bunchy, like a pheasant. It was massive enough to be intimidating, but small enough to squeeze under a park bench and pinch me on the bum. What the hell was that thing?

I don't think it was a native British bird--unless, of course, it was some sort of overgrown fen-grouse. What are those called? That might've been it. Horrible thing, anyway. Horrible, pinchy thing.

Mother was no help at all. I said: "Ey, remember that time at Birdland, when I was bitten by that thing?"

"What thing?" She was perplexed.

"That horrendous monster bird."

"Och, don't be silly. That was a wee bird."

"It was enormous!"

"It was a peahen."

(It was not a peahen. Could it have been a peahen? What sort of fucked-up memory glitch transforms a peahen into a cassowary?)

At any rate, one of two things happened, that day:

a) I was sitting on a park bench, minding my own beeswax, when some FLESH-CRAVING STAR-TREK-ALIEN PERVERT BIRD snuck up and goosed me. I was defenceless under its beady gaze! It overpowered me with its giant, smelly body, and gave me a pinch I'd never forget.

b) I was sitting on a park bench, feeding some peahens, when one of them got overeager. I got a little peck, and the bird got a little more than it had bargained for. (Supposedly, I jumped up and tossed a sarnie at it. Would I do that? Would I throw a sandwich at an innocent bird? Ha, probably.)

I have no idea what happened. Why do I even tell that story? Either way, it's pretty dumb.

Now, I have fourteen thousand words. (Picture this written on some dead cunt's chest in blood, à la "Now, I have a machine gun!" From Die Hard, you know? Aw, come on. You know what I'm talking about.)

I think I might've taken the "Show, don't tell" principle a little too far: I forgot to describe the protagonist. Then again, does it really matter what colour his hair is, what year he was born in, or whether he wears spectacles or no? I always skim that stuff, when I'm reading. You can get the general idea from people's reactions to the character.

Yeah, all right. I made a mistake. I'll fix it, eventually.