I was looking forward to the weekend trip to Scotland and catching up with my brother and his wife. It had been a difficult few weeks since my wife had left me for the Cobbler. I should have realised something was going on. Her complaint of ongoing heel defects with the stilettos were not really plausible. But at least I would never run short of front door keys.
“Is this seat free?”
A middle aged man appeared in front of me. In his left hand he was carrying a polyurethane sports bag with Adidas emblazoned upon it. In his right hand he held a sturdy carrier bag.
I mumbled that it was. He placed the bags on the table. I looked at the carrier bag, a durable plastic design with reinforced handles. I possessed a number of them, although my bags bore the logo of a slightly more upmarket company.
The head of an Owl appeared from the bag’s opening. Tawny by its markings. I wondered if Asda were doing a promotion on endangered birds of prey. Then it dawned on me. The Owl was dead. Stuffed too.
“Make yourself comfortable Clive, it is a long way to Dunbar,” the man said to the Owl.
Twit Twoo, Twit Twoo I thought to myself.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on Clive for me?” The man asked. I nodded.
“He won’t bite will he?!” I said waggishly.
“He’s dead.” The man replied drily.
He walked towards the buffet car. The Owl stared at me from the opening of the lifetime carrier. Upon closer inspection I noticed that its eyes were different colours. I concluded that the taxidermist was a cheapskate. Or colour blind. And a fellow with a limited sense of humour.
A passenger walked past and stared at the Owl. “I like Owls. I’ll give you thirty quid for him.” I explained the Owl’s circumstances. The man shrugged his shoulders and walked on.
The Owl’s owner returned and nodded his thanks. He was carrying a coffee and a packet of Cheese and Onion crisps. The same brand as mine, which I had bought at great expense from The Pumpkin outlet at Temple Meads.
He unzipped the Adidas bag and retrieved a stoat, at least I think it was a stoat. The small mammal was grasping a small log mounted on a plinth. A brass nameplate was screwed into the plinth. It read “Bessy – a true friend.”
Half a pound of tuppeny rice, I thought to myself.
The man began to groom the stoat, whistling as he did so. A large middle aged woman stopped and asked him, “Do you know if they have any Cheese and Onion crisps left in the Buffet?”
“Plenty.” The man replied.
“Good.” The woman tottered toward the Buffet.
“Bloody expensive though,” the man said.
“Too true. I bought mine at Temple Meads. £1.20! Outrageous!”
We finished our crisps, relaxing in each other’s company. The Stoat was placed on the table staring out at the passing countryside. When alive she was very inquisitive apparently.
Pop! goes the weasel, I thought to myself.
The Owl remained housed in the carrier bag. It continued to stare at me.
“Got Some!” The fat woman said holding a packet of Cheese and Onion crisps up for us to see.
“Ridiculously expensive though?” We both agreed.
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