A cautionary take from the countryside.
Last week I was driving an Impreza STi, in white with suede interior. Very nice. Very exciting. Very easy to attract the attention of the rozzers.
Driving east on the M58 I happened upon a hen pheasant. A gormless, quarter witted, dumb, hen pheasant obviously determined not to be shot at come next September.
It stood there in the overtaking lane, which I was using to overtake at the time, and looked at me for what seemed an eternity but was, in fact, just a few seconds before it was to experience eternity first hand.
Later I wondered what was going through it’s mind. We will never know but I can tell you what I was thinking. You’re dead, cocker.
Now among the sentimental tendency I am sure there are questions being raised as to why I did not take evasive action employing the masses of technical features and traction controls built into this car.
I’ll tell you why I chose to drive straight on. Because I dislike hanging from a seatbelt in an upturned car trying to determine which orifice the blood is dripping from.
Anyway, there was a thud and a bump followed by a veritable Roman candle of golden plumage.
Without admitting to anything, this was an STi, 4.8 to 60mph and 155mph, the bird was not so much killed as vaporised.
Taking with it to dickiebird heaven an airdam intake and several inches of plastics.
I bet if I look along that stretch tonight, someone has taped a bunch of flowers to the fencing.
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