In his cotton gown, Wheezy Richardson lay back.
His spine ached these days, though it was more out of the lack of burden than the weight of it.
He frowned. Above the sirens and groans of passing engines, there was something missing. A heavy abscence of birdsong. It’s like spring woke yesterday, shot a beaked head around its surroundings, panicked and realised it was still winter, so rushed off to hide once more.
Wheezy felt like doing the same. Though, where would that get him?
‘Phoebe, I think Jacques Cousteau is dead,’ he heard Judy explain.
The audience roared with laughter.
He had a face like a featherless sparrow, Jacques did.
Wheezy wondered if folk would look back at him one day and offer him an unfavourable analysis of his appearance.
First he needed to dive deep enough to be noticed.
Wheezy reached for his apparatus, fell backwards off the side of his bed and went in search of the locked-nest monster. He was sure to find it in the cavity between his room and Chester Coffee Pots.
If only the cheap seats were frilled.