Men in Their Sheds

A Wag of a Tale:

Got to and cleaned out the shed yesterday, a long-awaited yet uninviting job. Most of the stuff hadn't been touched since we moved to Paterson six months ago.

Meanwhile, I’ve been making salutary attempts at educating myself to the wonder and wiles of country life, especially about the birds and wallabies, and the habits of brown snakes. I have learned the latter like to frequent where bush rats make a home, such as my shed, which left me a little alarmed. Perhaps the rats were also the reason why a goanna disappeared under the benching.

Anyway, it’s again nice to see the concrete floor, upon which I can pile the next lot of 'stuff', as men-in-their-sheds do.

During the foray into my personal disaster zone I was unwittingly visited by a pair of Willie Wagtails. Unaware of my presence they flitted in through the large doorway and perched upon a projecting dowel.

At first I was not sure which one was from Venus and which from Mars, as these little, local lovers faced-up for their courting ritual. They strutted their stuff like they were in a ballroom-dancing competition. One of them crouched down and got all serious by broadening "his" eyebrow plumage. The normally fine white strip expanded as he confidently arced his head from side to side and swung his long and glossy rear-end up and about (as men do!).

This fanciful and noisy shindig continued with great vigour as he enthusiastically indicated his desire for some bird-ing and bee-ing. Mrs. Willimena Wagtail, quite impressed with his theatrical advances, teased him along all the more by shamelessly flaunting her desirability for anyone to see. All the while she was getting closer and closer.

Then, suddenly, she fled. Something must have spooked the Mrs, or she was playing hard-to-get. This defiant and deflating act gave Mr. Wag the willies, no doubt, and left him wondering about his swagger. But she didn't return, despite his repeated, punctuated pleas of "chicka-chicka-chick" (as blokes do).

Despondently, the poor lonely and dispirited little fellow flew-off when he finally got sight of me standing amused among the wings. Later, he hung curiously from a wire just outside and gave me the eyeball-treatment. I think he was intimating I might wish to vacate the premises and so give them some privacy in their Lovers' Lookout.

Today they can have it all to themselves, as long as they clean-up afterward.

~~~

Article published in the November issue of Paterson PSST, our village publication.