Bridge Magazine - Part 1

WORDS NANCY ALSOP PHOTOGRAPH © GETTY.COM
WINGED WONDER
Percival the parakeet, Kensington Gardens
“‘Who’s a pretty boy then?’
well, my dear, one does so hate
to boast (too, too vulgar) but when
this enquiry comes tripping off
the lips of seemingly every other
passerby, it would be churlish not
to concede that one is in possession
of a certain je ne sais quoi. it’s the
emerald plumes, so i’m told (‘so
jolly! such exoticism!’ as the cry goes
out around west london’s keenest
twitchers), that both enchant and
distinguish the parakeet as the most
decorative on the english avian
spectrum of pulchritude.
“the robins with their red breasts,
and the blue tits with their azure
markings are, of course, charm
itself, but set against our vivid
peregrine good looks, how can the
native be expected to compete?
the common garden bullfinch, the
diminutive sparrow et al... all are
sweet english roses, but oh! how
their soft and sweet prettiness dulls
when outdazzled by our impossibly
fine emerald plumage. crueller
parakeets among us quip that they
are green with envy but, of course,
that is the very last thing they are,
poor colourless loves.
“ah, but how kind one’s human
admirers are, offering little tidbits
here, words of soft encouragement
there... it is enough to turn a humble
bird’s head.
“but, you see, my set has long
become accustomed to the awe
and wonder afforded us, not only on
account of the gods having smiled
so beneficently upon our looks (for
which, merci mon dieu), but because
we are, it would seem, something of a
mystery in this pocket of town we call
our own.
“legend abounds as to our
hallowed presence along the treelined
boulevards of west london
(where else but the stately avenues
of kensington gardens would do for
our perching posts? the royals are
The LONDONER
so appreciative of splendour). it is
even rumoured that we were first set
free from a vile-sounding cramped
confinement on carnaby street by
one Mr hendrix. he’s a musician
of note i am told, though i confess
his thunderous and discordant
noise seems frightful to my ears,
accustomed as i am to my own more
mellifluous melodies (though i did
once catch an impertinent child
describe my harmonious lullaby as
a ‘squawk’. the beast was on the
receiving end of a small – but very
definite – peck on the nose for such
outrageous impudence).
“My own preferred thesis is
that we, as many believe, fled the
isleworth set of the african Queen
in 1951 where we had, no doubt,
been cast in a starring role to lend
a bona fide flavour of exoticism to
the motion picture. and who, after
all, could blame us for voting with
our wings when billed second to
humphrey bogart and katharine
hepburn? what are hollywood
stardom, costume departments and
thespian antics to our finery and
splendid feathers of emerald?
“the genealogists among us say
that we originated in the foothills of
the himalayas, where long sultry
summers give way to forbidding and
perishing winters (worse even, i am
given to understand, than a chilly
January on the serpentine. i shudder
at the unhappy thought).
“luckily, there is a great sea fog
of oblivion between then and there
and here and now – and not, i hasten
to add, simply for one’s self. how
would the sweet promenaders of
kensington et environs cope through
the interminable and dreary winters
with not so much as a glimpse of one
to cheer and warm with thoughts
of summer and frivolity? they do
simply flock to us, and it is just too
touching to think how we should
be missed...”
BRIdGE MAGAZINE 11