Comfort Of Sorts

This was a bad idea.

But you can't blame the muffin, whose seedy eyes had become misaligned.

The muffin falls off the table.

And crumbles.

Now it's really ruined, says Terence.

I should have stopped it, says Denis. Sorry.

Terence picks up the pieces of muffin.

The crumbs, the paper wings, the toothpicks and the passionfuit seed eyes.

This was his beak, says Terence.

So it was, says Gaius. What shall we do with it?

Bin it, says Denis. Where is your bin?

I don't want it to go in the bin! says Terence.

The compost bin, says Gaius. With the compostables, where it will break down and become one with the peelings.

One what? asks Terence.

One with the earth, eventually, says Gaius. A passionfruit vine may spring from its eyes in good time.

There's a fine thought, says Denis.

And trees will grow out of the toothpicks, says Terence.

Less likely, says Gaius.

And butterflies from the wings, says Terence.

Impossible, says Gaius.

Keep the wings, says Roo-kai. They'll remind you of the muffin.

Okay, says Terence. He pulls the toothpicks out of the wings.

At least I've got you, my real parrot, says Terence.

Yes, says Roo-kai. But you tried hard with the muffin.

I might keep the toothpicks as well, says Terence.

So only the crumbs and the passionfruit seeds end up in the compost bin in Gaius's kitchen.

There they lie.

All alone. 

Because Gaius hasn't peeled anything since he got back from Paris.

Now, says Gaius, we must plan our itinerary. 

Do we fly to Whyalla? asks Denis.

No, says Gaius. We'll catch a Stateliner to Whyalla, and we'll take our bikes, so we can cycle to Point Lowly.

He takes out his phone, and starts checking the Stateliner timetable.

Tomorrow morning at 8.25, says Gaius. I'll make an online booking.

He taps for a while.

Done, says Gaius. Who's for an apple?

Me, says Denis. I'm famished,

Gaius looks into his pantry.

No apples, just a box of potatoes, some of which have sprouted.

Better go shopping, says Gaius. 

I'd be happy with potatoes, says Denis. Boiled and mashed with butter. I'll start them. Where's your peeler?

Drawer, says Gaius. While you do that, I'll hang out the washing.

So Denis starts peeling.

Soon the crumbs and eyes of the muffin are joined by peelings and sprouts of potato. 

A comfort of sorts.