In which there are visited cards, differing international etiquette, and a pigeon as dead as a dodo
- The second batch of postal cards should already be with the Brits, and are winging their way to Oz via drop beAirmail.
- On differing international standards for polite conversation:
• Dear Texans, attempts to convert random Brits on public transport to your religion that begin with an idiosyncratic explanation of The Truth of Creationism (as opposed to evolution "Darwinism") and holyroll on downhill from there are unlikely to improve your journey or anyone else's day. The escalating bodylanguage Brits will use to communicate the unacceptability of your behaviour is as follows:
1. refusing to catch your eye and staring determinedly out of the window,
2. responding to all attempted verbal engagement with subject-changing comments about the scenery (or gobsmacked silence depending on how outrageous you've become),
3. people you're not attempting to engage sighing or tutting loudly enough for you to hear,
4. a bloke behind you being so annoyed that he pointedly starts humming this song (4mins utu) under his breath.
• Dear Australians, as tourists you have a better general reputation than the majority of anglophone nations. One of the ways to ensure this high regard continues is not to attempt to verbally engage Brits staying in the same bed and breakfast establishment on the following topics at the breakfast table, especially all within 30 minutes:
1. Donald Trump,
2. Brexit,
3. Hitler [/why, yes, I'm speaking from recent personal experience here].
(Note: I first confused and then successfully routed them on the first subject with Hillary Clinton Facts as supplied by jekesta's fan post. It was the libraries and child literacy that worked cos Trump has demonstrably done nothing useful for subsequent generations except passing his daddy's wealth onto his own kids ← although I didn't actually put it like that because I do possess social skills, even at 8am.)
- When the beach rubble prods you! When I arrived home, very tired, yesterday evening at dusk I discovered that the local feathered mafia had dumped a dead parrot pigeon on my doorstep. It was spreadeagled on its back with its heart ripped out like an ornithological reenactment of a viking blood-eagle. I'm unsure whether the peregrine falcons intended this as a sign of displeasure, or a warning, or a gift, or if it was merely the aftermath of a clumsy meal eaten on my roof. I decided I couldn't cope with it then so I left it until this morning, partly in hopes that a fox might remove it during the night. No such luck! When I went out this morning I discovered that not only was it still there, and stuck firmly to the paving in a pool of its own dried blood, but other birds had added a scatter of small red berries that created the illusion of extensive spattering. I can't decide if this was an artistic statement or an offering to the soul of their departed comrade. Oh, and one of the local delivery men had casually left a brown paper parcel propped up on my front door next to this scene of carnage. On trying to remove the carcass, and having braced myself for emerging creepy-crawlies, I discovered that it was FULL OF WASPS, ARGH! Eventually, I managed to dispose of the body on the railway embankment some distance away, because I'm courteous enough not to dump a dead pigeon where it's likely to immediately be acquired by a dog or child out for walkies. DO NOT WANT. /gruesome anecdotage
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- On differing international standards for polite conversation:
• Dear Texans, attempts to convert random Brits on public transport to your religion that begin with an idiosyncratic explanation of The Truth of Creationism (as opposed to evolution "Darwinism") and holyroll on downhill from there are unlikely to improve your journey or anyone else's day. The escalating bodylanguage Brits will use to communicate the unacceptability of your behaviour is as follows:
1. refusing to catch your eye and staring determinedly out of the window,
2. responding to all attempted verbal engagement with subject-changing comments about the scenery (or gobsmacked silence depending on how outrageous you've become),
3. people you're not attempting to engage sighing or tutting loudly enough for you to hear,
4. a bloke behind you being so annoyed that he pointedly starts humming this song (4mins utu) under his breath.
• Dear Australians, as tourists you have a better general reputation than the majority of anglophone nations. One of the ways to ensure this high regard continues is not to attempt to verbally engage Brits staying in the same bed and breakfast establishment on the following topics at the breakfast table, especially all within 30 minutes:
1. Donald Trump,
2. Brexit,
3. Hitler [/why, yes, I'm speaking from recent personal experience here].
(Note: I first confused and then successfully routed them on the first subject with Hillary Clinton Facts as supplied by jekesta's fan post. It was the libraries and child literacy that worked cos Trump has demonstrably done nothing useful for subsequent generations except passing his daddy's wealth onto his own kids ← although I didn't actually put it like that because I do possess social skills, even at 8am.)
- When the beach rubble prods you! When I arrived home, very tired, yesterday evening at dusk I discovered that the local feathered mafia had dumped a dead parrot pigeon on my doorstep. It was spreadeagled on its back with its heart ripped out like an ornithological reenactment of a viking blood-eagle. I'm unsure whether the peregrine falcons intended this as a sign of displeasure, or a warning, or a gift, or if it was merely the aftermath of a clumsy meal eaten on my roof. I decided I couldn't cope with it then so I left it until this morning, partly in hopes that a fox might remove it during the night. No such luck! When I went out this morning I discovered that not only was it still there, and stuck firmly to the paving in a pool of its own dried blood, but other birds had added a scatter of small red berries that created the illusion of extensive spattering. I can't decide if this was an artistic statement or an offering to the soul of their departed comrade. Oh, and one of the local delivery men had casually left a brown paper parcel propped up on my front door next to this scene of carnage. On trying to remove the carcass, and having braced myself for emerging creepy-crawlies, I discovered that it was FULL OF WASPS, ARGH! Eventually, I managed to dispose of the body on the railway embankment some distance away, because I'm courteous enough not to dump a dead pigeon where it's likely to immediately be acquired by a dog or child out for walkies. DO NOT WANT. /gruesome anecdotage
This entry was originally posted at http://spiralsheep.dreamwidth.org/599448.html and has
comments Please comment there using OpenID.