(Jottings from Jonah (Oscar the owl’s cultured grandson) - Number 20)

Well of course Cara was delirious with joy when she discovered not only that Bazza was a girl galah, but that he had proved his femininity by becoming the mother of an egg, No other names could be suggested, the decision was made unilaterally by Cara that Bazza henceforth would be known as Edna. Students of antipodean culture will be aware of the intervening Barry in the link between Bazza and Edna.

The only remaining problem (as far as Cara was aware) was that Edna completely ignored her offspring and placed it in danger of being crushed underfoot, so Cara took over her parrot’s maternal duties. She made a little pouch out of chamois leather and filled it with cotton wool, in which she carefully wrapped the egg. Then she placed the contrivance between the walls of a natural cavity that exists on her chest. Edna’s other egg – the one she laid before being recaptured by Cara – remains in the care of Penny, my wife and mother, who now has three and a half eggs to take care of, including three of our own. Perhaps I’ll offer to carry the parrot-egg down to Edna in my beak.

Cara spends most of her time with all the other old girls who sit in the wardrobe department, drinking tea and swapping gossip in between running up bits and pieces for the actors to wear. They’ve been quite busy of late, getting ready for ‘Salad Days’, but not so busy that they cannot share Cara’s excitement about impending motherhood. She gives a secret smile to anyone who enquires and pats her bosom very gently indeed. My hope is that she’ll fall flat on her face and smash the stupid egg.

‘Salad Days’ is becoming quite a favourite for Penny and myself, what with all the jolly little songs it includes. Last year at hatching time they were rehearsing something by Joe Orton and, quite frankly, we could not understand all of the jokes that the quackers found so hilarious, no matter how many times they told them in rehearsal. This year, the choice is much better; Penny and I join in with all the songs and know most of the words off by heart. We like the one that goes, “We’re looking for a piano, a piano, yes a piano, not any old piano, but one that makes you dance...”, but our favourite song is “We said we wouldn’t look back”. Well... (to explain) ...looking back is something that owls do rather well, since our eyes can’t move but our heads can revolve 360 degrees, so Penny and me do special actions as we join in with the words.

Oscar has learned at last that, by the simple expedient of covering Edna’s cage with a black cloth that Cara borrowed from Wardrobe, he can confuse Edna into shutting up her constant squawking. She thinks it’s night-time and goes to sleep, which is something she did only during the day when she lived with us in the nest.

Oscar now sits on the stern deck of his boat, which was once called “Esprit de Noel”, but he’s right off anything French at the moment, being an ex-soldier. Lots of new names have been suggested, but I think he favours ‘PLAYMAKER’, though I can’t think why... probably something to do with being moored beside a playhouse.

He just sits there, nodding and smiling at passers-by, puffing on his pipe and pretending to read the newspaper when anyone he doesn’t like approaches. Quite frankly, the stink he makes with that pipe is enough to keep most people away, but some pause and chat for quite a long time and he makes them laugh as much as he can.

The other morning, quite early when there was nobody else about, he made himself a hot mug of tea and brought it out onto the stern to enjoy the sunshine and the racket made by all the other more noisy birds. I sat on my perch high up under the eaves and watched him light his pipe, then do a lot of barking and coughing and expectoration into the canal, before I went “Hoo-hoooooo!” right out loud and made him look up at me. He seemed so pleased to see me that I flitted down to join him.

“You’ve been a bit thoughtful of late,” I remarked to him.

He stared back at me and puffed his pipe, his eyes watery from all that coughing, then he took up his mug of tea, took a long slurp of thorough enjoyment, before putting the mug down again and resuming his puffing, cogitating and examination of me, his very special pal, friend and confidante. “Well...” he said at last, “it’s like this...” then he went all quiet again before continuing.

“Events over the past year have served to remind me of my own mortality and, as a result, I have conducted a private and confidential review of what has passed thus far.

“It was with some surprise,” he continued, “that whenever my age has been exactly divisible by thirteen, I have been subjected to a cataclysmic event of a sexual nature, at least a very narrow squeak, if not squeakier...” preceded yet another pause for thought, before he continued, “Am I right that you chaps are totally monogamous?”

“Totally,” I confirmed. “Once committed to one lady owl, we never look at another one with lust in our hearts as long as that lady is alive, and them the same.”

“That’s wonderful,” he said, “and truly beautiful. The same is almost as true for we human beings – ‘quackers’ as you call us – almost but not quite completely.”

“I know,” I said. “Your mental pornography never ceases to amaze and disgust me, all of you, men and women the same and class or profession are no barriers.”

He ignored the implications of my observation and continued with his theme. “I, of course, have always been totally faithful to Cara, and she to me, but there have been moments when temptation has been offered and the most cataclysmic of these events has unerringly occurred exactly when my age has been divisible by thirteen.

“At age thirteen, I lost my virginity in a pig-sty.”

“Lucky pig,” I commented.

“Ah!” he grasped. “You misunderstand. The lady in question was human, not a pig, and the pig-sty was brand new, just delivered, unused by those for whom it was intended and therefore a suitable shelter in inclement weather, which it was, raining, so we took shelter. She was a healthy farm-girl, sufficiently more advanced in years than myself and full of enthusiasm for her mission in life, which was to introduce me to the delights of the flesh, which she did, most efficiently. She was, I think, intrigued by my innocence; until she took me in hand I really had no idea that human beings did it in exactly the same way as all the farm animals. She incurs my gratitude to this day.

“At age 26, I had recently provided ample evidence of my virility by being involved with Cara in the production of three beautiful children in quick succession. These days, those three complain that I rarely include any reference to them in my reminiscences, so that’s that put right. Anyway, I found myself in close theatrical proximity with a lively and vivacious lady, who had been married for almost a decade without producing young. Luckily, conscience prevailed over my best endeavours to compensate for her husband’s deficiencies, but I gave Cara a few surprises.

"At age 39 I was used by a delightful young actress as a defence mechanism. By faintly implying that I – her director and tutor – was the man in her life, she kept countless young swains at bay. Some years passed before I discovered her duplicity; by then it was too late to demand satisfaction, but it did my ego a power of good

"At age 52, I found myself working in Ethiopia, accommodated in the Addis Abeba Hilton Hotel; Cara remained at her nursing work in good old England. It was usual in various foreign locations for me to become involved with theatrical activity or with the teaching of English to those of less privileged nations, and so it was in Addis. The local university employed a number of persons from similarly socialistic countries, including the professors of Music and Drama, both of whom were single ladies of a very interesting age. With them, I would discuss the work of Chekov, Gorky, Stanislavski and such great names as these. One of the learned ladies began regularly playing tennis at the hotel with my colleagues, after which activity she would enjoy a cold beer in the bar while glowing as ferociously as only a Russian lady can glow, so – considerately and with great diplomacy - I offered her the use of the toilet facilities in my room. Thereafter, she brought a change of clothing with her and appeared in the bar after her shower looking highly scrumptious. It was on about the third occasion that she partook of my delights that – in an approximation of panic - she summoned me to my own room, where she was relaxing on my bed between her tennis togs and her fresh set for later. Naturally, being British, I made an excuse and left.”

I thought - judging from Oscar’s soppy grin – he was merely rekindling the image of the Russian lady flopped out on his bed in her buff, but apparently his misguided tour down the avenues and by-ways of memory lane had reached its terminus.

“So?” I asked, “what’s so remarkable about all that?”

“Nothing,” he said, “Nothing,” but the grin lingered on.

“So, why tell it?”

“Because, my dear owly friend, next Saturday I get to be SIXTY-FIVE!!”

Jonah was a very experience director, teacher and writer who sadly passed away in February 2006. He was also the author of the highly successful "Playmaker - The Craft of Directing Plays (The Way I Seen It)".