In an antique shop, I dithered over the purchase of a bo’sun’s wig. It had been powdered once, with talc or something like it, white, so white, and flecks still clung to the horsehair. At least, I think it was horsehair. It was known to be the wig of a bo’sun because, as if it were a great work of art rather than a topper for a bo’sun’s pate, there was a card of provenance. One could follow the ownership of the wig through three centuries. Think of that! I am no chemist, but I wondered, if the wig were subjected to tests, whether one would discover flecks not only of talc but of sea salt and other briny particulars. They say that in those days the hard tack ship’s biscuits fed to the crew were sometimes rife with weevils. Perhaps within the strands of horeshair lay hidden weevils’ eggs and crumbs of ship’s biscuit too. If I made purchase, would I feel compelled to take the bo’sun’s wig to a chemist, for tests? And would the chemist comply? The only chemist I know is as bald as a coot. He might inveigle me to let him keep the bo’sun’s wig, and have it disinfected with borax and then wear it on his chemist’s noggin. Winter is approaching, after all, and his head must get a-chilly at such a season. He is not a hat-owning man, as he has told me more than once, in the smoking room anent his lab, where we sit, the two of us, puffing on fags and talking of everything but chemistry. His eyes are those of a moonstruck calf, and I cannot imagine, were he to cast them upon me and plead to keep the bo’sun’s wig, that I could ever refuse him. I am not made that way. Thus my dithering, in the antique shop. If I bought the bo’sun’s wig, I would want it for the wooden head, so smoothly carved, I keep upon my Kakovangi cabinet. That, the wooden head, has been tested, and I know it to be free of woodworm and other tiny creeping things that would munch it to ruination. The cabinet itself I am not so sure about. In the night, it creaks. In the night, and also in the day, I creak too, repeatedly, jarringly, for I am ancient, like Methuselah.

The text of today’s lesson is taken from Fingers by Oswell Blakeston, Chapter 4, Paragraph 16:

He glanced at Sir Richard Dickie, in fear that the bird might have changed into a charging ostrich of fire.

How common is it that, behind our backs, when we are not looking, a cage-bird, such as a budgerigar or a canary, turns into a charging ostrich of fire?

In all honesty, the answer must be “very rarely” or “I have never known such a thing to happen, in all my days”. For one thing, those who know their ornithology will know that the ostrich is a much larger bird than either the budgerigar or the canary, and would not fit into the average domestic birdcage. Thus, if by magic, some comparatively tiny cage-bird transformed itself into an ostrich, it would do itself a mischief, break some bones, and possibly even be suffocated as it became an ostrich, confined within a cage too small to hold it.

Against this, one could argue two things. If the cage was constructed from flimsy materials, it might be that the burgeoning ostrich would simply cause the birdcage to fall to bits around it as it expanded in size from budgerigar or canary to full ostrichdom. Or, bear in mind that Blakeston specifically describes an ostrich of fire. Would not the enflamed and blazing bird burn the cage to cinders as it underwent its transformation?

Thus, however unlikely the event, we must concede its possibility. But what would cause an ostrich to burst into flame? If anything, such a fate is more likely to visit a canary, for once upon a time canaries in their thousands perched in cages hung from the rafters of coal mines, to act as detectors of noxious fumes and gases. If the miners did not notice that a canary had choked on escaping gas and toppled from its perch, or indeed even if they did notice, an explosion might occur in the mine and the canary be consumed by fire.

Ostriches, being so much bigger than canaries, would prove an impediment to miners down a pit, so one cannot imagine them facing the same awful fiery death as the tinier birds. But then consider the ostrich’s notorious tendency to swallow the most unlikely of materials. One twentieth-century ostrich, for example, was found to have ingested a lace handkerchief, a buttoned glove, a length of rope, a plain handkerchief (probably a man’s), assorted copper coins, metal tacks, staples and hooks, and a four-inch nail. With that kind of diet, one can well imagine the addition of combustible items, and an agency of combustion.

So we see, too, that the idea of an ostrich of fire is not so far-fetched. As for its charging, that would be a perfectly instinctual reaction to a bird finding itself aflame. Whether it would find a pond or lake in which to douse and extinguish the flames in the kind of domestic parlour in which Oswell Blakeston’s cage-bird Sir Richard Dickie finds itself is another matter entirely. Though I suppose one can imagine it charging out of the parlour and into the kitchen, towards the kitchen sink, or up the staircase and into the bathroom, towards the bath. Then it would have to hope that the kitchen sink or the bath were full of standing water, for I am not sure ostriches, which are reportedly particularly stupid birds, would have the wherewithal to insert the plug in the plughole and turn on the taps, with their talons.

Thus we can see that having resolved some of the difficulties posed by the passage, we are not wholly in the clear. There remain insoluble problems. As, perhaps, in life, there ever will be. Let us now sing a hymn.

When the nights are drawing in, it is time for parlour games. Whereas in the summer you might spend your evenings going for long hikes before or after supper, roaming the hills and the moors, as autumn descends you will want to close the shutters and gather round a blazing fire, pater and mater familias and your bewildering number of tinies. And on such evenings, even reading aloud lengthy passages from the Bible can pall, so you will want other resources, and what could be better than a diverting parlour game?

To play Poop Or Orlop? (sometimes known as Orlop Or Poop?) all you need is a supply of cardboard and some string and some glue. One member of the family is designated as the “Admiral” (if you are upper class), the “Captain” (if you are middle class) or the “Skipper” (if you are working class). Everyone else leaves the parlour and gathers crammed in the pantry for an hour or so. The “Admiral” or “Captain” or “Skipper” uses this time, and the cardboard and the string and the glue, to transform the parlour into a nautically-accurate poop or orlop deck.

When the rest of the family returns from the pantry, each in turn must use skill, judgement, and knowledge of ship construction to declare whether the parlour is now a poop deck or an orlop deck. Those who decide correctly are treated to a “feast at the captain’s table”, that is, they are each allowed to go back to the pantry and choose a snack from among the snack items on the pantry shelves. Those who decide incorrectly are “tossed into the sea”, that is, they must clamber out of the open window and wait shivering in the garden until the next round.

The “Admiral” or “Captain” or “Skipper” then dismantles the cardboard and string and glue poop or orlop deck and returns the parlour to its pristine condition. The winners come back from the pantry stuffed with sausages or pies or fruit, and the losers climb back in through the window, and someone else is designated as the “Admiral” or “Captain” or “Skipper” and the game begins again.

We take as our text for today’s lesson the Gospel of Matthew, chapter ten, verse twenty-nine:

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.

Sometimes it so happens that you will go to a sparrow-seller to make purchase of a pair of sparrows, only for him to state an asking price of more than a farthing. Or he might charge a farthing for a single sparrow, but throw in a second sparrow with a “Buy One, Get One Free” offer, in which case you will pay a farthing for two sparrows even if the one sparrow costs a farthing in itself. Thereagain, you might find yourself being offered a free sparrow by a seller of, say, partridges or linnets, who has an unwanted stock of sparrows and cannot wait to be rid of them, for they are greedily eating up his grain and millet that he would rather feed to his partridges or linnets.

So when we ask the question, as we must, are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?, the answer is no, not always, not in all circumstances, come what may, for there may be times and places where we will be asked to pay more, or less, for a pair of sparrows. And from this we can learn much about the ways of God and Man. Yes, the honest sparrow-seller will hand us two sparrows upon receipt of a farthing, but not all sparrow-sellers are honest, while some sparrow-sellers are too honest for their own good. And, as with sparrow-sellers, so too those from whom we buy other birds, not just partridges and linnets, but starlings, and kittiwakes, and seagulls.

But what of the second part of the verse from Matthew 10, that one of them – that is, the sparrows – that one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father? The first part of the verse is a question. The second part is not. It states, quite vehemently and unchallengeably, that, without your Father, one of the sparrows will not fall on the ground. But which of the sparrows is it that shall not fall? One of them will, and one of them will remain in the air, in flight and birdy swooping, until your Father appears, at which point, we must assume, it will plunge towards the earth, just because your Father has arrived.

The more one studies this passage, and I have studied it for years and years, the more problems it raises. Why does one sparrow fall on the ground without your Father? Why does the other sparrow fall on the ground when your Father appears? Is your Father armed with a shotgun, or a catapult? Does His mere presence induce in the tiny frail sparrow a heart attack? And if He can have that effect on a sparrow, what of other birds, partridges, say, or linnets, or starlings or kittiwakes or seagulls or robins or wrens, or even hummingbirds?

These are profound questions, and we must dig deep to answer them, deeper, certainly, than a sparrow may need to dig to light upon a fat juicy earthworm for its morning snack. My own experience has taught me that all that digging will be as naught unless one has first found a sparrow-seller to sell one a pair of sparrows for a farthing. Alas, in this day and age, more leaden than golden, such sparrow-sellers are rare indeed, rarer even than the proverbial hen’s teeth. But the hen is quite another class of bird from a sparrow, as you will know if you have ever kept poultry. Thus sayeth the Lord.

Word reaches me that there may be one or two Hooting Yard readers who may not be attending the Evening of Lugubrious Music and Lopsided Prose at Woolfson & Tay bookshop in precisely two weeks’ time. I find this hard to believe. However, in the unlikely event that there is a grain of truth in it, I suspect these benighted souls will realise the error of their ways when they discover just what they will be missing. Not just Mr Key babbling while dressed in the kind of jacket worn by Christopher Plummer in The Sound Of Music (Robert Wise, 1965), but the encaped Outa_Spaceman making the world a better place through the medium of song.

And what songs! Here, as a spur to persuade anyone foolish enough not to have yet bought a ticket, is Outa_Spaceman performing his setting of The Pavilion By The Shore. I reproduce the words below, so you can all sing along:

♪ Pavilion By The Shore

There is a pavilion by the shore. I do not go there any more. I used to visit every day on my clomping horse with its rattling dray, and I’d hammer my fists upon the door of the pavilion set beside the shore, but I do not go there any more. I cannot go there any more.

I used to clomp along the lane lined by beech and larch and plane, but something went wrong in my brain and now I languish in the drain.

I languish in a drainage ditch. I’m smeared with grease and tar and pitch. I’ve lost the use of my lower limbs and at the mercy of vermin’s whims.

All sorts of vermin suck my blood as I lie sprawling in the mud, and others gnaw my skin and bones while I groan my dramatic groans.

Above me, a hot air balloon will be arriving very soon. I’ll be winched up by a length of rope, and washed with disinfectant soap.

The balloonist will sing rousing hymns to cure my withered lower limbs, and we’ll hover in the boundless sky eating a snack of lemon meringue pie.

Then I’ll be dumped back on the lane, a few tweaks putting right my brain, and then I shall return once more to the bright pavilion by the shore.

I’m sure there’s something, before I go, that you are very keen to know. The balloonist’s name – don’t be a clot! It was Tiny Enid, the heroic tot!

It is a curious fact that whenever I think of the characters who stalked the dreams and nightmares of my childhood – Stalin, Lev Yashin, Paavo Nurmi – the one who looms largest and most vividly is the one who never actually existed outside my infant imagination. The Breadcrumbs Man was tall and gangly and pale, and breadcrumbs were scattered in his hair and in his beard, and upon his coat, and the pockets of his coat, they too were crammed with breadcrumbs, and he left a trail of breadcrumbs in his wake as he patrolled the streets and alleyways and bridges of the ancient city where, in my dreams and nightmares, I grew to manhood.

He followed me wherever I roamed, through the ancient streets and alleyways and across the ancient, crumbling bridges over the river. Sometimes the river sparkled in sunlight, but when I climbed down the steps to the mudbanks I saw it was filthy and rife with toxic sludge and tiny, wriggling worms. The Breadcrumbs Man followed me down the steps to the mudbanks too, and scattered his breadcrumbs upon the waters, where they floated, neglected by the worms and any other living things that might present themselves, in my sleeping brain, from time to time. There were never, I remember, any birds.

Always he remained behind me, the Breadcrumbs Man, and if I turned to speak with him he stood stock still and averted his gaze, shunning me, so the words caught in my throat. But what would I have said?

With Stalin and Lev Yashin and Paavo Nurmi I would have long and animated discussions, about communism and football and long distance running. But I mixed them up, so I would talk to Stalin about football, to Lev Yashin about long distance running, and to Paavo Nurmi, the only non-communist of the trio, about communism. Sometimes, when I woke, I would recall these conversations in great detail, and write accounts of them in my jotter, complete with stage directions. I remember thinking that one day in years to come I could mould these dialogues into a dramatic presentation and take the theatres of the land by storm. And years later, when I had grown to manhood, I came upon the jotter one day in a chest stuffed with memorabilia, and I read a few pages and I shook my head and guffawed, for it was all nonsense, and witless nonsense at that.

Yet the Breadcrumbs Man, who never spoke, and to whom I could never utter a word, the Breadcrumbs Man haunts me to this day. He no longer appears in my dreams and nightmares, and has not done so since one summer afternoon in my early teens. I was at a picnic, in a bright and buttercup-splattered field, and, replete with sandwiches and sausages and pastries and pickles, I fell into a doze.

I found myself striding purposefully across the most crumbling and ancient of the crumbling and ancient bridges across the river. I sensed that the Breadcrumbs Man was following me, and turned my head momentarily to confirm that it was so. I quickened my pace. He did likewise. Then we were at the docks. I had never visited them before. There were huge tankers and container ships, some with the hammer and sickle emblem daubed on their sides, and there were smaller boats, fishing smacks and tugs and rowing boats. And, for the first time, there were birds! Gulls screeched, guillemots tumbled and swooped, auks and skuas soared. I looked behind me. There was the Breadcrumbs Man, somehow paler than ever, almost a ghost, and, again for the first time, he looked directly at me. His eyes were milky, and blind, and terrible. Suddenly he emptied his pockets of breadcrumbs and shook the breadcrumbs from his hair and his beard. The gulls and guillemots and auks and skuas descended in a frenzy of scavenge and peck, a blur of birds in which the Breadcrumbs Man was engulfed. When the birds flew away, he had vanished. I never saw him again.

In the bright field, I woke. I cracked open a can of Squelcho! and slurped it down. My mother was packing things away in the picnic basket.

“I am going to be an ornithologist!” I declared.

I am not an ornithologist.