Mr Ian Corby was just then passing a perfectly pleasant evening in the garden of the Fruit & Nut Flake in Richmond Road, where he devoured with relish the grilled chops which the chef for his delectation caused to be sent out to him from the kitchen of that place. True it was that Mr Francis MacMahon had dropped by in order to convert some of the red wine previously abiding in his coat pocket into the water just then gushing from his nub’s tip all over the children’s sandpit. Nevertheless, Mr Ian Corby was not in the least discombobulated by his erstwhile captor’s cataractal munificence, nor eke by his very presence, inasmuch as that rogue had intimated through certain discreet back channels that Mr Ian Corby’s confinement was most unlikely to be repeated, in view of that rogue’s becoming aware of the sinecure which that thrusting and ambitious corvid had obtained in the hierarchy of the City Council. —
Francis MacMahon, The Fruit & Nut Flake, Ian Corby, Corvid
Nor, being a famously sanguine bird, was Mr Ian Corby at all put out of countenance by the sudden fluttering and flapping which filled the air above his head, just as he polished off a thoroughly unobjectionable sticky toffee pudding with ice cream. At that very instant, there was a species of reificatory materialisation, and Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet flopped down onto the perch beside him. —
Hawksmoor Perroquet
“Mr Corby, that is to say, Ian,” said he, “I most particularly wished to inform you that you have my permission, should such be your inclination, to renew the addresses you have been paying to Miss Isolde Perroquet,” and added, after a pause during which he found it necessary to swallow something or other, “that is to say, my daughter.” —
Isolde Acridotheres
There was now for some minutes a queasy silence between the Mayor and Mr Ian Corby. At length, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet jumped down off his perch, and wandered across the lawn, and disappeared into the bar, returning after some further minutes with a bag of wasabi peas. After the elapse of some further minutes of queasy adjacent perching, the Mayor spoke again, rather plaintively: —
Wasabi peas
“I heard them talking about me in there just now. On account of that dreadful business in Little Mogadishu.” —
Little Mogadishu
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