This afternoon, I was working on a short story when I heard a small ‘thump’ and found a half-eaten muffin on the flat roof outside my window. No-one can access the flat roof except me, no-one could have thrown it from a neighbouring window and yes you may think why would anyone do something like that and I would reply with this quote from the property management representative, “Buildings are easy, people are the problem.”
So, it had to be a bird. What sort of avian twonk leaves most of a muffin uneaten?
Was it bored with muffins? I well remember taking (having bought specially for the purpose) a small loaf down to feed the waterfowl in a cold snap and seeing the whole local demographic laid bare in the disinclination of the fowl to make the one-foot climb out of the water (Well, throw it in, then. No, YOU come out and get it. Stop messing about and throw it in, right?) Also, I needed the small loaf more than they did.
It could be boredom, perhaps it reached satiation point with the Waitrose equivalent of avian feeding. There is an Essentials range, but most shoppers only buy it to put into the Food Bank.
And then, it struck me in a random connection, ringing with the subtle harmonies of the soundtrack to the universe.
PUFFIN.
I was writing about a small, rocky island off the west coast of the Hebrides. I was thinking of puffins and in that bizarreness that characterizes random linkages, a muffin appeared.
Sorted.
Ferdinand Page 