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For Real

Robin In The Hedge

Robin In The Hedge

We bumped into The Robin on our way round the other day. He was looking very cheerful – in spite of singing that mournful dirge of his. I mentioned to him that it was hard to take him seriously – all that pseudo-sobbing and heart-rending pathos – when he bounces by with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye.

As Hallowe’en is over now, (although, there are still a couple of pumpkin heads sitting in front of one of the houses on our route – the party was so good that they missed the last broomstick home, we suspect) he has a few weeks to himself, before he needs to decide which holly bush to sit in, and take up his ritual Christmas obligation – so he was relaxed and in a communicative mood. We chatted for a good few minutes before he mentioned a previous appointment, and said he had to fly. The upshot of it all was, I have sadly misjudged the fellow, I apologised profusely, of course, and he was good enough to dismiss the matter with a careless flick of his tail.

It seems that he has made somewhat of a name for himself in the Northern Soul world, so he takes every opportunity to practice whenever he thinks he’s alone. It requires focus and attention to detail, he assures me, to fake authenticity.

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