An Extraordinarily Ordinary Man

‘Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast’, as Oscar Wilde facetiously stated. To the unsuspecting eye Charles was no exception to this rule; a middle aged man whose austere demeanour with which he engaged in conversation - an act he would only partake in if necessary - made him seem a considerably older fellow. Well, that and the greying hairs resting precariously on top of his head, forever receding, just as he himself seemed to be forever receding from society.

Each morning starts at 6am in the Charles household, which contains only him, his sister Jane and his housekeeper, simply just referred to as ‘housekeeper’. Then precisely at 8:15 is when the grand show is played out, breakfast is served. A mouth watering mosaic of eggs in all forms, sausages, bacon, toast, every type of jam you could think and also types you couldn’t possibly think of, mushrooms, tomatoes, avocado, fruits filling any gap available with bursts of colour. Yet all this is only complete when Charles receives his coffee, black, no sugar, and a newspaper.

The splendour and grandness of this buffet is now undetectable to Charles, it has simply just become routine, ‘normal’. Rather he buries his head in the morning’s paper, different news each day but the same-old lifeless nonsense, at least its consistently dull though, consistency is key for Charles.

But when trapped in a routine, is it just as easy for us to lose sight of the splendour in our lives as it is for Charles? Take birds for example. It’s possible for an Englishman (or woman) to go through all of life without taking notice of the wonderful, joy filled screech from a swift flying up above, returning to England after its 6000 mile journey from Africa. To some who do notice them, they describe them as the ‘devil bird’, interpreting their excited squeals as harrowing screams, haunting the rich dusk sky. Yet to those who don’t just notice but appreciate this skilled creature, the swift can be breath-taking. The precision with which it flies shows up fighter pilots, and embarrasses anything else that dares fill the English skies by swooping and dipping, pulling off great turns and loops, screaming with laughter in the face of all that are there to witness. Contrasting its bold character is its delicate build, the sleekness of its curved wings and forked tail aiding its dizzying manoeuvres and of course its hypnotizing darkness in colour which from a distance makes them seem like ants infesting the summer skies. However, those who understand the creature, who have gone out of their way to learn about them are the ones who re-kindle the child-like fascination buried deep within. For the swift is not only a master of flight but endurance too, spending up to 4 years in constant flight from birth until it goes to nest itself, doing everything on the wing, eating, sleeping and even mating.

I imagine the Kama Sutra for swifts is incredibly complicated, including positions that take place high up in the sky such as the ‘Don’t look downwards dog’ or ‘The reverse 69 mph’. It reminds me of a terrible joke that used to be told amongst fellow birdwatchers and I... ‘You should check out that lady who owns the aviary, she's got great tits’.