Poisson D’Avril

In case you are wondering about the heading, I understand it ( as much as I understand anything French) to be the French for “April Fool”.
This is a mucky story – true, but mucky. My old friend Michael came from Galway. He spent most of his life building “England’s Motorways”. He had inherited a deeply felt hatred of the English in his genes – after all we had hanged 11 of his uncles in the market place at Thurles (Co. Tipperary). In spite of this he became a firm friend of mine (I don’t know why). Anyway this is his story. Whilst he laboured for MacAlpines he was put up in digs, hither and thon. The digs were Spartan and all the workers slept in dormitories – long attic rooms with basic beds. The other thing basic were the lavatorial arrangements - I was reminded of Michael’s story after I came out of hospital, by the problem arising from getting to the loo when being unable to walk. In hospital, it is not a problem – you have a plastic bottle (in French it is a “pistolet”) and when it is full you just ring your bell and Nurse arrives with a replacement. This service is not available in our little bed back home. Nor was it available in the dormitories of the itinerant road builders. They had the use of a free-standing bucket in the corner of the room. The itinerants, being mostly Irish who had easy habits with drinking, which is not to say that they were often drunk, but they were inclined to “have drink taken” as the Irish so tactfully put it. This meant that their aim when approaching the bucket tended to be a bit wobbly. Early one morning the itinerants were wakened from their slumber by a crash and screams of female rage; what happened was – years of poor workmanship had rotted the wooden floors of the dormitory until it finally gave way and deposited the bucket and its’ contents on the floor below. This happened to be the bedroom of the landlady of the digs, who, as they say, copped the lot. She was not best suited

Song Birds
I see that the RSPB want us all to list the little birds in our gardens. With this house, there is a tiny garden at the back, but quite a large population of birds (?) can birds make a population (?) There is a family of Blue Tits who nets in a hole in our ancient Apple tree. Our little town is an ancient port and it should be thick with Gulls; I think of Berwick on Tweed and Fowey in Cornwall, which were full of clamouring gulls; Here I hardly see, or hear, one. I can only think that the French pinch all the eggs. I cannot blame them, I love Gulls’ eggs– they are always available at the bar in my London club. I cannot believe that the French would deny themselves such a delicacy, but as they glory in tripe sausages – “belief” has to be suspended.
From my armchair, which I use rather a lot during my convalescence, I get a good view across the back plots of the neighbouring houses. Through the windows I could have counted at least 3 pairs of Flycatchers. I think of all the small birds, these agile little birds are my favourite. I admire their agility as they flutter in the air in pursuit of their flying food.
_______________
I am sure that you all felt deeply affected by the Japanese tragedy, I could not help wondering how my dear old father would have felt about it. Dad spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp. He was left with a deep physical scar and an even deeper hatred of all things Japanese. He always said that the Atom bomb saved his life. All the POWs were told that if the British soldiers continued to insult the Emperor by winning things, all the prisoners would be marched into the neighbouring mine shaft workings and all the shafts blown up. No, Father did not like the Japs and I cannot blame him.
_______________