Not surprisingly, therefore, ace guitarist Mike Sealy phoned last week about a dream he had on this wise: it came to pass that Mike journeyed into his backyard in search of a breadfruit meet for cooking. And verily the tree was heavy-laden with ripe fruit. But in each case birds had eaten out the fruit and made their nests therein.
Except for one breadfruit which was smaller and very black; and a perfect replica of Sir Grantley's head! "What then, Lowdown," he asked, "could this dream portend?"
Bread and fruit are, of course, the most basic of sustenances. And birds are a serious omen. In such cases, we Chaldeans wait for confirmation and writing on the wall. Nor were they long in coming.
A few days later, a yute brought us a strange bird with an injured wing found on Morgan Lewis Beach. Local expert Wayne "Doc" Burke agreed to come next morning but arrived at the front door before I could properly snatch on my towel.
"That is a Grieg White-Throated House Sparrow," he declared. "Zonotrichia albicollis, sub-adult, although I've never seen one quite that small."
"Thank you," I replied testily, "but the bird I want identified is outside in a cage."
Horny thologist
Never again will I let a horny thologist handle what I call my bird. First Doc, and later Martin Frost held its head and stretched it to the limit to check its size. Thank Heaven Karl Watson seems not to have got my message or he might've wanted to have a go as well.
Anyhow, they think it's a Pomarine Skua (some say, Jaeger), almost unknown over here. It comes from the Arctic, maybe with a warning that for the first time ever the North Pole could be free of ice this summer; maybe with a message from Santa not to expect good tidings.
These are indeed strange times. Consider: during the recent Sanitation Services strike, Westbury Cemetery operated with a skeleton staff. "Homosexuality is wrong from every possible angle," says Rev Dr Al Miller of the Fellowship Tabernacle. For US$175 you can get a Japanese robot woman, "big-busted, petite, very friendly and runs on batteries" (Linda Williams?).
Meanwhile, nyotaimori, "naked sushi", is becoming all the rage. You select your raw fish off a nude woman. Menu includes "tako" (octopus), $13, and Hawaiian tuna poki, $14.
Signs and wonders! But I still needed to see writing on the wall. It came at the "launch" of Kean Springer's Truly A Gentleman, a biography on the Right Excellent Sir Hugh Springer, at the BWU auditorium.
Grand affair
This was a grand affair, more in the nature of a celebrated Kean soirée than a launching, considering that a billion-dollar space rocket is launched in ten seconds. We had speeches, a string quartet, a brace of Norvilles, Red Plastic Bag and I could see Mike Sealy waiting in the wings.
Unfortunately, many of us hadn't eaten since midday. And as the eighth hour approached, I felt such a fatal flatal accumulation that I durst not move. Then I saw the writing on the wall behind the high table: "Where there is no vision, the people p rish." What could it mean?
I soon found out. For, as proceedings came to a close, I made a dash for the men's room where, presumably at the instigation of some truly foreseeing gentleman, there was a very loud air-conditioning unit.
And for the next half-hour all I could hear was "Prish, prish, prissshhhh!"
Where there is no vision, the people prish. And I sure did.
But we must also look for a national message. Foreign birds arriving here, taking over our very means of sustenance (Mike's breadfruits) while Bajans prish. That warning is clear, but what meaneth Sir Grantley's head?
I know not. Meanwhile, my bird is doing well and you can see it for $5. I'm begging the swamp-shooters not to kill it when it goes free.
I'm not sure if you can get to see Mike's breadfruits. Or if they will make you prish.