The High Alpine Life

It's a gruelling climb to the Mt Baw Baw Alpine Village.

Not many have done it on bicycles by night in the middle of winter in a snow storm.

Sweezus, Arthur and Gaius are glad when the road flattens out near the top.

Are we there yet? asks Terence.

Not yet.

They pass a few car parks and ski lodges.

Hey! My parrot's not breathing! says Terence.

If I'm not breathing, gasps the Elegant Parrot, it's because I'm wrapped up too tight in this hat.

She's too tight in the hat! shouts Terence. Stop, someone!

But Sweezus has no intention of stopping.

He can see through the snow storm the stone gates of the Baw Baw Alpine Village.

He powers through, with Arthur not far behind.

They stop in front of the only place with lights on, and loud music.

Awesome, says Sweezus. This is more like it.

He and Arthur drop their bikes, and go inside.

Inside it is hot, and people are drinking glüwein and hot rum punches.

Some people are dancing.

Arthur heads to the bar.

Sweezus plonks his back pack on a convenient table.

Terence climbs out.

Help me! says Terence, dragging at something.

I'll help you, babe, says a passing young woman, dressed for summer. What's in there?

A dead parrot, says Sweezus.

Ha ha! I get it! Monty Python! says the young woman. My grandparents were into that.

It's NOT dead, says Terence.

I know! says the young woman. It's an ex-parrot. Wait. No. Is that how it went?

Do you know much about parrots? asks Sweezus.

Let's see, says the young woman. I'm May, by the way.

I'm Sweezus, says Sweezus. I just rode up here.

You're KIDDING! says May. In this SNOWSTORM!

Yep, says Sweezus. It wasn't that bad.

Woah! Totes amazing! says May. You should go in the Tour de France or something.

Actually, says Sweezus, I am.

Let me buy you a todka, says May.

Yes! Sweezus is in.

Too bad for the parrot.

But here comes Arthur, with a hot rum punch that he may not have paid for.

What's up? says Arthur.

No one's helping me, says Terence. My parrot is choking!

I'll help you, says Arthur. He pulls at the edge of the tam o' shanter. But this serves only to choke the parrot more severely.

Ach-uch! cries the Elegant Parrot.

Is that a parrot? asks a passing ornithologist.

You'd think he would know.

Yes, says Arthur. She's in a pickle.

Get her out of the PICKLE! cries Terence, beside himself.

The ornithologist sees what is wrong immediately.

Her head is stuck through the hole in that hat, he says sagely. And when you pull at the edge of the hat, it acts like a noose, which chokes her. Here, little bird, steady on, let me help you.

So gentle, the nice ornithologist.

And not so bad looking.

Having rescued the Elegant Parrot, he leans towards Arthur.

I'm Heron. What are you drinking? Tried a todka?

He and Arthur slope off to the bar.

Terence and the Elegant Parrot are left on the table.

It's a good spot, and Arthur has left his half finished rum punch behind.