Dancing with a Tiger

It was a Sunday morning, wet and cheerless. Along the street the merriment of the church bell of ‘The Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary’ ding donged its way to 5am. The overcast spectacle of a rainy Sunday pulled its way up the heavens. To Joe there was nothing duller in the world than a wet Sunday in London. He thought of Samuel Johnson ‘When a man is tired of London, he his tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.’

He tuned his digital radio into Birdsong and sat with head in hands listening to the Lesser Spotted Tit Warbler. Then the much rarer Whomegoolie bird ‘phallicapus gooliana’ chirped in. This was a bird that had no legs. It was sad to think of the songbirds that were now extinct, the Waxwing, a cinnamon brown plumage with a pinkish – chestnut crest that used to migrate south from the Scandinavian countries in the winter died off 10 years ago, killed by acid rain. The sweet chiffchaff ‘Phylloscopus collybitta’ no larger than the smallest robin was shot in droves by the Italians who opened up with enormous barrages of 12 bore shot guns every spring as it migrated north from Africa until like the dodo there were none left. Pickled or peppered they represented one good mouthful to a person with a large mouth of which there were plenty. Joe thought of Peter Sellers singing, ‘eat your macaroni Joe every blinking day!’ scratched his balls and went back to bed sliding in beside his beloved Brenda.

The tiger was there again, waiting. It was a big tiger. Powerful and cunning and it was searching for him. He lay along the parapet of the railway bridge at Camden Town and watched it smelling the air, licking its lips. Slow luscious licks with its enormous tongue, dribbling spittle splashing onto the pavement, eyes half closed, hungry and alert and Joe knew that one false move and the bastard would be up the wall and onto him in seconds.

It prowled the deserted streets ignoring the taunts of fearful barking dogs, and not a soul about, nothing with which to divert its attentions away from him. Then the thought occurred to him why not ask it if it would like to have a dance. He knew it spoke English because it had been incarcerated in the zoo in Regents Park for years and now that it was loose with no body to feed it, it was having to fend for itself and was on the whole thoroughly enjoying the outing.

The tiger sat on the road contemplating its next move, looking rather quizzically at its reflection in the shop window when Joe in an act of great bravado walked towards it.

‘I say old boy would you care for a dance?’

Joe carried a large ghetto blaster and switched it on. Henry Mancini and his orchestra played ‘The Anniversary Waltz.’ 'Don’t want to get it too excited.' The tiger, taken aback raised itself to its full enormity stood on its hind legs and then gently rested its huge paws on his shoulders, and wrapped its tail around both of them. Soft lights, music, social happiness. The tiger licked his ear. Joe took the part of the girl, who was going to argue. Suddenly the strong grip loosened, he thought, ‘my God what have I said to him, maybe…’ the tongue at his ear stopped licking, and he growled, ‘wait here.’ Joe pleaded; ‘don’t go,’ but as it disappeared around the corner he felt slightly relieved to find himself dancing alone.