TREVOR TWOHIG LTD.
 

Geese

 

My most frightening experience dates back to when I was a very young child, holidaying in Eastbourne. It was a beautiful time, my mother and father were there, together; one of the few times I would see them like this.

 

Anyway, we were enjoying the blistering weather; the exciting ice cream flavours; the crazy golf and the parks. It was in one of these parks that 'my frightening experience' occurred.

 

As we walked through the park, I saw a traditional English scene, full of happiness. Young mothers pushing prams; babies laughing and cooing in the sun; children playing football - jumpers for goalposts. But also, there were geese. Lots and lots of geese.

 

One of the things I remember from my childhood was the ritual of feeding the animals. Just when I thought it was safe and we were leaving the park, I would hear that fateful rustle from Mum’s pocket and out would come the bread or other foodstuff she dutifully brought along.

 

‘So, who would like to feed the geese today?’ A rhetorical question, well at least I hoped it was. I certainly didn’t, but every time I always ended up feeding whatever scentient being was there, usually immersed with fear. I mean, I was a young boy, probably 7 years old tops. In all honesty, I wasn’t the bravest soul. Possibly, due to the time on Midhurst Hill when I was attacked (barked at) by a feral (quite nice actually) cocker spaniel. But that’s a story for another day.

 ‘Yes Mum…er…that would be great!’ I tentatively replied. ‘Ok darling, there you go!’

 

She beamed at me as the breadcrumbs were thrust into my little hands. I gulped.

 

I moved slowly towards the lake, like a dead man walking, sentenced to public execution. I could see them all quacking, talking goose to one another, plotting my downfall. Here goes, I thought…

 

Now, the problem with geese is that they lack the decorum and etiquette that us human beings take for granted. As soon as they saw me coming, the mob of hungry birds started to rise and come towards me. They flayed out their wings, they cawed their aggressive song. They pattered and waddled towards my cowering frame. It was as if it was their divine right to eat my bread. So, there I was. , surrounded by geese, feeling like an American gangster at the end of the movie, my demise imminent.

 

So, I did what any self-respecting cowardly kid would do in this situation.  I dropped the bread, then proceeded to cry, wail and bawl until I was heard by the nearest adult.

 

Now, my Dad had obviously seen the kafuffle and had decided in a very dignified manner to help his son out and allay this crisis. I could see the metaphoric cogs turning in the mind, ‘leave this to me son, Dad’s got it from here…’

 

He came over to the swarm of winged devils, shooing them away-but what he failed to realise, was the packet of polos he had in his hand at the time.

 

Unfortunately for him, one of the bigger, ‘daddy’ geese had clearly had enough bread for today and wanted to move onto something far more refreshing. He snapped vigorously at Dad’s packet and dad narrowly escaped a rather overfed and belligerent goose being surgically removed from his arm.

 

The other geese, could see that there was going to be a problem here and moved away, back into the water, to make this a fair fight. But goose number 1, was not going to let this go. He ran for my Dad, snapping and squawking. My Dad narrowly avoided him bobbing and weaving like a prize fighter in his prime.

 

Then as the goose was ready to launch his next attack, common sense dawned on my father and he decided to turn around and run as fast as he can in the other direction. Now as a young boy, two things you always think are that your Dad is a) the cleverest and b) the bravest man you know. My descent into the cold hard truths oif adulthood began on this day.

 

Goose number 1 had no time for such musings though; he was not to be defied.  He sprinted after my Dad and the polos, biting and nipping at his wobbling bottom as he ran, quite honestly as fast as I had ever seen him run.

 

My lasting memory is of my Dad being chased around my Mum by the angry goose and him wailing like a child in protest.

 

You always think your Dad is ‘the tough guy’, the one who will protect you in crisis. The John Wayne of the Home Counties; the protective arm around your shoulder when you really need it.

 

Perhaps, but only if there are no geese around.