Outsourcing

 

I am standing with my bicycle and Bambino, the shot-gun riding cat, at the Albert Docks in Liverpool. I’ve been here before, way back in the day when Lord Malarkey and I were a-courting. He lived in Liverpool at the time and I remember him taking me for a tour of the city, showing me all the tourist attractions such as the Beatles’ Cavern, Paddy’s Wigwam (can you say that these days? Yes, you can – I’ve just checked on Wiki), and the very impressive museums and art galleries. He also introduced me to the Super Lambanana, which is not as louche as it sounds. This is the Super Lambanana…

Liverpool was also the place where he got my children on side by plying them with the delights of Caesar’s Palace, sadly now closed but a most impressive eatery in its day. Anyway, here I am again, staring out at an expanse of water, in the wee small hours and wondering what kind of magic I need to conjure now to get this bicycle across the Atlantic Ocean.

‘I suppose,’ I say, ‘that I have to travel overseas now?’

‘If you want to do the job properly, yes,’ says Bambino.  ‘Although there is an alternative.’

I am always happy to hear an alternative, especially if it saves me time, energy, money and having to go out in the rain. And even more so if it’s an alternative of, for example, cakes. ‘Would you care for lemon drizzle, rich fruit, coffee and walnut, meringue, éclair, tiffin, flapjack, Jamaican ginger, chocolate fudge, apple and cinnamon, or a sultana scone, madam?’ ‘Oh, just leave them all, thanks!’ I’m terrible about making decisions re: cake alternatives, but oh, what joy to be presented with such a dilemma!

‘Tell me the alternative,’ I say.

‘You could call on ‘A Wing and a Preyer,’ says Bambino.

‘Continue on…’ I say.

‘A Wing and a Preyer,’ says Bambino. ‘It’s a delivery service run by Sam the Eagle, you know, him from The Muppets…’

‘I wondered what had happened to Sam the Eagle,’ I say. ‘You don’t see him around very often, do you?’

‘Bit part actor only now, I’m afraid,’ says Bambino. ‘So he branched out, as it were. He works out of America, of course, and comes highly recommended on ‘Trustpilot,’ which is ironic, don’t you think? What with him being able to fly.’

‘And there is a pilot bird, too,’ I say, marvelling at the serendipitous connections that are flocking into my brain.

‘Let’s not over-complicate matters,’ says Bambino, sighing. ‘Also, the pilot bird is too small and chunky to get off the ground carrying much more than a plastic yo-yo, so would be pretty useless in this situation. And it’s Australian. Need I say more?’

I have no idea what Bambino is implying there, so decide to move on with this ‘A Wing and a Preyer’ idea.

‘What do we do now then?’ says I.

 ‘Well, I’d call the number of the office of ‘A Wing and a Preyer’ and book a delivery slot,’ says Bambino, shrugging his shoulders.

‘It’s really that simple?’ I say.

‘Absolutely,’ says Bambino. ‘How complicated exactly did you expect it to be?’

He takes his wallet from his knickerbockers pocket and riffles through a collection of business cards therein.

‘There you go!’ he says, handing me a card edged with gold foil. ‘I used Sam’s service last year when I wanted a consignment of my handcrafted in cat fur balaclava and matching fingerless mittens delivered to Omaha, Nebraska.’

(Crafting knitted goods from his own shedded cat fur has been a long time side line hobby of Bambino’s. He’s got quite a global fan club for his various items of bespoke garments. There are some proper weirdos out there…)

I take the card. Here we go, I think, dialling the number.

And, within ten minutes, or half an hour, or maybe two (I’ve lost track of how time works now) a large bald-headed eagle appears flanked by a team of prairie falcons, ferruginous hawks and, appropriate for the time of year, turkey vultures. Bambino greets them like old friends and takes the  bald eagle to one side where they engage in an animated conversation involving many wing and paw gestures, a bit of laughter and the passing over of a small brown envelope. The bald eagle then approaches me, offers a curtsey, to which I return a gracious incline of my head and regal wave of my hand. The bald eagle then takes Father Christmas’s present sack from the bicycle basket along with the red button gadget, and vanishes with his entourage through the Albert Docks, up the River Mersey, across Ireland and onwards to the North Atlantic Ocean towards America, a distance of 4,000 miles, give or take your start and finish points.

‘They’ll be back in about an hour,’ says Bambino. ‘Just time to grab a nice hot chocolate and mince pie somewhere, don’t you think?’

Well, my flabber has never been so ghasted. At the beginning of this evening, life seemed so carefree and easy, then it became hideously temperamental and challenging, and now it seems to be approaching carefree status again. But that’s life, isn’t it? Full of ups and downs, peaks and troughs, good and bad. Ronan Keating certainly knew what he was singing about in ‘Life is a Rollercoaster.’

‘Just one thing,’ I say, as we head off to find a tea shop still open on this early Christmas morning, because  there will always be one somewhere, ‘why did the bald eagle curtsey to me?’

‘Oh, I told him you were Princess Anne,’ says Bambino.

‘But she’s a sharp tongued, brusque workaholic who hasn’t changed her hairstyle in over 40 years,’ I protest.

‘And your point is?’ says Bambino.