A murder of crows, a proliferation of ortolans, and I am in hot pursuit, abdicating food, drink, and sleep whilst I satisfy a persnickety lust for feathery winged details.
The mission of the news station was to present, each evening, a sort of Manichean guillotine of ideas wherein a pundit would drop down a sharp heavy opinion between the twin poles of good and evil--traducing prior good behaviors if needed to make a point--but sending some viewers to the veritable Gretna Green of politics for a hasty marriage with an opposing party.
Mark Twain might comment that the trouble with some people is that once goaded by a philippic, they flee like nidifugous hatchlings from compliment and philippic alike, and let that habit interpose a shield between perceived comfort and imagined distress.
Grandfather had lived large, disturbing Parliament in his gallithumpian way, and as I saw him silent, dead, I wished for a McKenzie friend to advise me on the rite: to remember him with respect and a droning threnody sans even a piper or celebrate that life with a rousing callithump as he might have organized it to march in defiance of death itself!
"This will test your character, your endurance--your mettle--you man from the atelier above my rented flat," I shouted to the crouched figure among the creeping ant-like myrmidons forming the two sides of the gantlet he would soon be forced to run, unprotected, with no jacket or chaps or a single leather gauntlet at his wrist.
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