Legends from our own lunchtimes

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The Shark is Dead

The first words I heard this morning were "The shark is dead" and in my confuddlement to be frank, I had no idea what she was going on about.   Then the fog started to clear and I thought Greg Norman had suffered a nasty accident, but no it was "our" shark, finally met his match.

After eight years as king of his patch, it seemed like an ignoble end to be spat onto a concrete drive a few metres from safety.  He'd withstood countless attacks from cranes before, he even bore the scars from one near escape, but this time a single grey feather at the edge of the pond telegraphed how he'd met his end.

It was the shark which had kept Mr Three terrified from going too close to the pond when he was Mr Two.  It was the shark that always came to greet visitors when hundreds of his progeny remained hiding in the plant.   It was indeed the shark, shrivelled and pursued by ants as he lay lifeless on the path this morning.

"One can see how legends and superstitions were created in days gone by" she said, watching the lifeless creature and musing on how it had been the first inhabitant of the pond, even before the house had been completed.   "Another metaphor" thought I.

And they haven't signed the contract yet.

1 comment

Joan Elizabeth said...

I had no idea there was a think like that in your pond ... I'm with Mr Two ... I'd keep my distance.

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