Are you a bird man?
by Ian Watson
I took a walk this morning to our village post office and
stopped for a cappuccino at the Cranks cafe just across
the road. It's a rustic, vegetarian place which reminds
me of the original Cranks I used to visit in Soho when I
lived in London in the eighties. The coffee wasn't great
today. The girl who made it was new and clearly hadn't
yet earned the right to call herself a barista. I didn't
mind too much, though, because it was warm and sunny and
I was able to sit outside comfortably for the first time
this year.
I drank my coffee slowly, did some writing and enjoyed
feeling the warm tinge of the sun on my skin. There was a
man, I'd say in his sixties, sitting alone at a nearby
table eating an early lunch. Just as I was getting up to
leave, he looked up at me and asked: 'are you a bird
man'?
I had no idea what he meant. The first image that came to
mind was of a shaman-figure I saw in a film clip once,
who wore a feather-covered costume and strutted like a
bird to evoke the spirit of some totem animal that his
people revered. Did he mean that kind of bird man, I
wondered? Or was he thinking of a falconer, the kind who
will patiently train a bird of prey to return to his
gloved hand? I didn’t think so. Perhaps he meant a
pigeon-fancier? I was wearing my beret rather than the
customary flat-cap favoured by the latter, but maybe I
looked the type who would spend half his life in a garden
shed cradling the soft downy underfeathers of a racing
pigeon. I certainly enjoy the soft, contented cooing
sound that pigeons make, but that's as far as it goes
with me and pigeons. Honest.
'I'm not sure......', I offered. 'Why do you ask'?
He pointed to a small yellow-breasted bird trotting along
the pathway next to the tables. 'I've been watching that
one for a while', he said, 'and I'd like to know what it
is'.
'Oh', I said, surprised that it had never occurred to me
that all he was asking was whether I knew the names of
birds.
'I'm pretty sure it's a wagtail', I said, 'although I
can't tell you which one'.
He nodded and went back to his lunch. I left and wandered
back up the hill, reflecting on the mysteries of
language, and how the same few words could mean so many
things and wondering whether I was, indeed, a bird man.
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This
very short (true) story was written in 2005, and has yet
to take flight beyond this website.