Inspired by a free writing exercise undertaken on Unthank’s Writing Fiction Course with the excellent and inspiring, Georgina Parfitt. All you need is a timer and give yourself permission to write anything that comes into your head. you will always find something that you might like!
‘Who’s a pretty boy then? ‘
The idea of thousands of moulting feathers all locked in the same room, separated only by the flimsiest of cage bars, still sickens me. I’ve lost promising acquaintances because of my hysteria in pet shops. Lost more than I dare admit to or even name when I relive that terrible, hopeless summer. Suffice to say, feathers for yours truly are like an ancient curse. There, I’ve admitted my dread, so I’m must be making progress.
I still blame my Aunt of course.
That summer my parents were gone away to Europe because of my father’s failing health and I was sent to Aunt Carol who lived close by Sidmouth pier. That sounds picturesque but believe me, all the postcards lie. The house was damp and sad and watchful of a permanently grey sea. My Aunt’s three servants were reluctant to humour such a dismal scrap of a child, especially one who expressed himself so hesitantly, whose every word demanded a Herculean effort that never seemed worth the wait. I stuttered badly then. So badly, that any audience I might have enjoyed, grew bored of waiting for my point to be made. People slipped away from me, sometimes politely or pityingly, sometimes not so kindly at all.
And the birds in that room, well they knew what I was too. ‘A fool, a fool, a f,f, fool.’ They chanted. The parrots, in particular, watched my hopeless attempts to study Latin or Algebra and gleefully stamped on their perches as soon as my attention wandered away from the incomprehensible marks on the page. Woe betide me if I started to doodle or daydream. ‘He’s a bad bad boy’’ the oldest parrot would shriek and the others would join in like some demonic chorus from Hades… ‘Bad boy. Lazy boy. M-M-M Miscreant. ’ over and over again, Their chorus summoning my Aunt with her immovable hair and click-clack heels, all harbingers of reproach and judgement.
My only respite came on a Wednesday and a Friday at 11-15 am. At this magical time salvation arrived in the form of the Racing paper carried under the discreet leather jacket of Harry Soames. For about an hour or so I was ordered to the beach. ‘Fieldwork’ said Harry to my Aunt in a strange way that I later decided was banter. I never quite understood if the irony was on me or my Aunt.
The parrots said nothing. Craven to their last, downy feather.
Very enjoyable! – A glittering snapshot, brief, yet vivid and detailed – very good writing, I loved ‘ I’ve lost promising acquaintances because of my hysteria in pet shops.’ Could be part of a longer piece, but stands up as a v. brief ‘story’ on its own.