WILD MAN
WOW: breeze. Mick Davies is having a brief foray into the field with Arthur Ketch... Not brief enough, apparently.
Disclaimer: I don't own the British Men of Letters. I am, however, British, so that must count for something ...
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"You know, Michael…"
"Mick," Interrupted Mick.
"Yes, yes, of course, sorry. Well, you see, as I was saying; spending your life behind a desk means you miss out on the joys of the field." Ketch enthused; "over the years, Michael, my time in field operations has afforded me the chance to learn a great deal about the world around us."
"It's Mick," growled Mick.
"When you're at one with nature for so long, you learn to appreciate the earth, the myriad colours of the sky, the scents carried on the breeze. And, well, I for one, have developed an appreciation for the much-maligned art of twitching. You know, bird-watching."
"You see that magnificent creature up there Michael?"
"It's Mi… d'you know what? Forget it."
"That's a raptor; a Kestrel if I'm not mistaken. There's a nest of goldfinches in this tree beside us and blue tit sitting on the high branch in that tree over there. I've been in this forest before and seen a flock of starlings so big you can't see either end of it."
He paused in silence, cupping his hand to his ear.
"How wonderful, I believe can hear a great tit."
"Funny that, so can I," sighed Mick.
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end