Cuckoo

There are not many occasions when I am lost for words. Speech comes very naturally to me, and I can generally find something to talk about. Should there not be a handy human with whom to share my thoughts, I can happily prattle the hours away in discussion with the dog, or a tree – even rocks have their conversational moments.

I have always maintained that my tongue is the fittest part of my body, as it gets the most exercise. I would describe myself as a multi-subject conversationalist, though the less kind have been known to say that I am a chatterbox, while those who wish to impress with their knowledge of the English language would call me loquacious or garrulous.

Whichever, it all means that I talk a lot! However, Kate and Nancy have also been blessed with the gift of the gab, to when we are together it’s not surprising that the conversation purrs along at a good rate, and covers a multitude of topics.

The three of us were sitting chattering like budgies on a perch, with Pete at the end, providing a sensibility factor to our flights of fancy. For no particular reason the conversation turned to The Great Hereafter, and Kate expressed the desire to come back as a dog similar to her own, sleek and streamlined, and capable of breaking the sound barrier. Nancy, who owns a cat which can trace its forebears directly back to the sabre tooth tiger, went for the feline option. I gave the matter great thought; ‘I’m going to be a cuckoo.’ I announced.

Seeing a look of blankness on their faces I explained: ‘A cuckoo is a protected species, so less likely to get shot. It overwinters in nice warm Africa, it oversummers in nice green England, and it has no parental responsibilities – it simply dumps its egg in someone else’s nest, for them to run themselves ragged bringing up the chick!’

I thought I had made a good case for the cuckoo, a bird that has adapted marvellously to the Me culture of no responsibility – in fact as I see it the only improvement it could make would be to persuade RyanAir to provide a free Bird Class service so that the tiring bi-annual flying bit could be undertaken on its behalf by an aeroplane.

I could see my logic impressed them. At this moment Pete, who had been sitting quietly wearing an air of superiority and a yellow shirt, said ‘You’d never be happy as a cuckoo.’
‘Why not?’ I countered defensively.
‘Because you’d only ever be able to say the one word – cuckoo!’

Ouch! How the truth can hurt!