Four Days Of Discovery

The Writers' Block #32 - Theme: Four Days Of Discovery

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me a partridge in a pear tree.

I was really pleased with the partridge because I had it once in a restaurant and it was delicious. I checked online what I should do with it and set about cornering the thing. It took quite a while to catch. The cat joined in and like a bizarre triumvirate we appeared to chase each other around the yard, no one clearly in charge.

Anyway, once in my grasp, I wrung its neck - the partridge, not the cat - removed the feathers and gutted it. I left it to hang overnight in the shed.

The pear tree flummoxed me somewhat. It was in a pot, so I decided to leave it against the wall and worry about it some other time.

I sent a text of gratitude to my true love.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

I caught hold of the partridge with little fuss this time, having learnt from the previous day. I prepared it in a similar way and hung it up next to its fellow in the shed. The pear tree, I dragged it until the pot was against the wall. I noticed it had a tag informing me it was a variety called D’Anjou. Looking at yesterday’s, I discovered that particular plant was of the Bartlett type.

The turtle doves looked shocked. They stared at me as if I could explain why they were in a cage in a yard in the cold winter. Unsure what to say to them, I tried to coo but that just encouraged the cat. She’d been circling the cage while I was dealing with the partridge. I brought them indoors and left them on the table in the dining room.

I then sent quite a lengthy text to my true love.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent three bloody french hens, two more turtle doves and another partridge in a pear tree of the Bosc variety. I dispatched the partridge without delay, moved the tree, put the doves in the dining room and rescued the cat from the hens who were taking great screaming delight out of chasing her around the kitchen.

I called my true love and left quite a terse message of thanks on the answering machine, not forgetting to mention that I’ll be in need of a good detergent to mop up all chicken poo that is turning my kitchen floor into a galline Pollock.

When the doorbell rang on the fourth day of Christmas, I nervously walked out to the front gate to find a tense Royal Mail van driver. He pursed his lips, crossed his arms and flicked his head towards the van. Even though the doors were closed I could hear the racket. Pear tree (Asian variety), tick. Partridge (sorted in ten seconds), tick. Turtle doves (good job I’ve got a large dining table), tick. French hens (haven’t seen the cat since yesterday morning), tick. What’s in that box? I peered in through an air hole: one, two, three, four calling birds.

Idiot.

I phoned, texted and email my true love.

It was over as far as I was concerned. Finished. Finito. Kaput.