Tweety Pie

You know everything, I said to Pliny.

I take notes, said Pliny.

I take notes too, I said. But I know very little about birds. However, I have just remembered something. I once had a pet budgerigar.

Unlike you, observed Pliny. What were the circumstances?

The circumstances were that I was twelve and my friend Wendy Suter gave me one for my birthday. Her family kept budgerigars in a cage in their back yard. My budgie was aqua, white and grey. I called him Tweety Pie.

Pliny looked unimpressed by my choice of name.

I didn't really want him, I explained.

Nevertheless, sniffed Pliny, you could have thought of a better name. And where did you keep your Tweety Pie?

In a wire cage in the kitchen. It rapidly filled up with gritty black and white speckled droppings and I had to clean them out. Every Friday he was allowed out of the cage to fly around. He was terrified. And I was terrified. Sometimes he would land on my head and I would get this strange vibration in my throat. I can still remember it. It was horrible.

Did you have him long? asked Pliny.

Not long. Our family went on holiday and we asked our next door neighbours the Braileys to look after him. And on Friday Andrew Brailey let him out and Tweety flew out of their kitchen window and away to certain death.

You must have been annoyed with Andrew Brailey, said Pliny. He should have taken more care with your Tweety Pie.

He should have, I said. He was not to know that I was much happier with an empty cage.

Why not, asked Pliny. Did you never tell him?

I don't remember that we ever exchanged words. However, three years later I let it be known that I needed a frog, and he very promptly caught me one.