Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are miniature wildlife experts.
They haven't inherited that genetic disposition of wildlifery from their mother. I distinctly recall, at age 12, running screaming from the front room after watching on television a lion rip the backside off an antelope. My own mother, who probably slurped another mouthful of tea at that very same time, just hollered through to the kitchen where I was so wildly confused by all the slaughter, That's Nature! You cannot stop nature!
My mother's words ring in my head even now, everytime I see a wildlife programme. In fact let me delete that sentence. I cannot even bear to be in the same room as a wildlife programme.
I know the British public is supposed to find Attenborough like porn, only better. But me, I cannot see past the slowly narrated gore, ripped apart antelope, and shots of circling vultures. And it doesn't have to be the Serengeti, either. That episode in Springwatch when the baby owl ate a sibling? That fragment was the only bit I caught and now I am in counselling.
But Shark, Squirrel and Tiger watch those programmes in awe. They have this wildlife gene. They sniff out an Attenborough from half a mile away. And as for Simon. Simon. SimonSimonSimonSimonSimon. Do you know Simon Says is not a game you play round here? No, it is the word of a god, and when someone says Simon Says, a hush falls over this house and little gritlet eyes widen in anticipation, because someone is about to repeat the wisdom of the Lord of All Wildlifery.
So I should have known better than to casually mention a couple of weeks ago that we could go to Ashridge woods for deer watching, for their walk-and-talk with an expert.
Oh foolish mother! The gritlets are delirious with joy! Life has purpose and meaning! Maybe even SIMON will be there!
Which explains why I spend today frantically exchanging emails with the walks-and-talks department of Ashridge, begging them to allow us to join the deer watching walk next weekend. Which is FULLY BOOKED.
By the third email I am alternatively pleading, weeping, and threatening self immolation. I have the matches ready. In exasperation, the lady at Ashridge suggests next year I book in March, and this year I lead a walk myself with a self-guided map.
What? Without an expert who knows what they are doing and where they are going? And is air-sea rescue cheap? Then there is all that lost expert knowledge! I know cak all about deer, less why they smack each other about the face with antlers. And what if I can't find the deer? I know they might be standing right next to me, but look what happened when I tried to find the car.
All is lost. I must show my face to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger and deliver news that the deer walk will be conducted by the ignorant and lost Grit falling into ditches, unable to identify one end of a deer from another. Their crushed faces of disappointment will rip out my heart.
I am on my knees. There is only one man on this earth who can help me now.
SIMON! SIMON! Please send a sign that I can be delivered from this disaster! Please give me guidance and tell me what to do!
But in all that is holy, please don't tell them about your calender.
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5 comments:
You just must beg and plead harder, grit. Say it's your dying wish, or something. How many degrees of separation are there between you and Simon. Can you quickly find out? You could always try David Attenborough.
nora, i never thought of that. and surely you're right: someone knows someone who knows someone, eh?!
Couldn't you just turn up at the appropriate time and stalk, oops, I mean follow, the group around?
Ha glad the gritlets like him, for some reason he sends a strange and unpleasant shiver down my spin, much like baby owls eating their siblings do. Shame you couldn't get on the walk, some officials have no heart. Yes what sharon said.
that is such a smart idea. we can claim we are merely deer stalking.
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