Discover … The power of the ‘HhhuuuUUTTT!’Ever feel you are living the wrong life? Ever feel another life, your should-be life, is out there waiting for you, if only you had the courage to …Do you like tinned pineapple chunks? Have you answered yes to any of those questions? Then follow the Purple-Bellied Parrot on a rip-roaring, globe-spanning adventure packed with unforgettable characters. His quest to live his should-be life.It Begins: In the sterile apartment of a city executive with unruly nasal hair where the Purple-Bellied Parrot cannot even do the very thing he was born to do. It Ends: On the shores of a distant land after an epic journey which tests his courage, his ingenuity and the bonds of friendship — to the limit.The Purple-Bellied Parrot is a spell-binding, life-affirming tale, with the power to evoke laughter and tears from readers 11-100 years old. (Parental Note: contains occasional mild imprecations.)
Today I’m delighted to welcome author William Fagus to booksaremycwtches with an extract from his book The Purple – Bellied Parrot.
The Purple-Bellied Parrot finds himself on the winter streets, naked because he has pulled out his feathers due to boredom. A gang of sparrows (spuggies) have found him.
The spuggies squeezed in even tighter to the Purple-Bellied Parrot and began a conflab.
‘We got to get him warmed up, but we can’t hang about here all day.’
‘Might be a moggie about.’
‘And I for one is getting peckish.’
‘I know, what if he jumps up and down to get isself warm?’
‘What — and he does that all day does he?’ said Gert.
‘I am thinkin!’
‘I know! We’ll stand him on top of a chimeney pot — be warm as toast up there.’
‘And leave him a sitting duck for all the passing maggies and spugghawks? Why don’t you give him a lil dinner bell to ring anall?’ said Vera.
Then Chalkie cried, ‘Got it!’ and with a cheep he was gone.
He came back a few moments later, a huge fluffy red thing flopping about in his beak. It was playing havoc with his aerodynamics, and when he landed on the edge of the bush he was fagged out.
‘Give us hand you lazy sausages!’ he gasped.
The spuggies hauled the fluffy red thing into the safety of the bush.
‘Well?’ said Alfie.
‘Well what? It’s a sock,’ said Chalkie.
‘I can see it’s a bloomin sock. You’ve been raiding them washin lines again. But how does that help us out of our present predickybirdament?’
‘He wears it don’t he. We put it on him.’
‘We put it on him? And then what? He just sits there all day does he, wrapped head to toe in a sock?’
‘Look like a big fat sausage he will,’ said Betty.
Chalkie slapped his forehead with his primaries. ‘Watch,’ he sighed.
He dragged the sock over to a puzzled Purple-Bellied Parrot. ‘Give us hand then!’
Ada and Flo twigged what was happening and helped him lift the sock over the Purple-Bellied Parrot’s head. They pulled down hard until it reached his legs. The sock bulged tight over his head and beak.
‘His hooter looks even bigger like that don’t it!’
‘Now then ladies and gents,’ said Chalkie. ‘Feast your mincey pies on this!’1
Whistling as he worked, Chalkie snipped a hole into the top of the sock. Once the hole was complete, he said, ‘Righto. Pull!’ and the three of them pulled down again. The Purple-Bellied Parrot’s head popped out, and soon they had the sock all the way down to his toes.
‘But …’ said Alfie.
‘Crikey, enough buts. Just watch!’
Chalkie nodded to Flo and they snipped two long holes into the sides of the sock. Then he whispered into the ear of the Purple-Bellied Parrot. It was a struggle, and Flo and Ada had to tug hard, but the Purple-Bellied Parrot soon had one wing shoved through. The other soon followed, and the Purple-Bellied Parrot stood in his woolly tank top and flapped his wings. It was so warm, his beak instantly stopped clacking. He was about to say thank you again — but then thought better of it.
‘Voila!’ said Chalkie.
‘You what?!’ they all chorused.
‘It’s your French lingo,’ said Chalkie.
‘But …’ said Alfie.
‘But? But what? Gawd, what’s wrong now?’
‘Erm … Well … ahem … The colour? Spose red was all what was h’available.’
‘Well, if you want him to stand out like a sore bum to every hungry moggie, maggie and spugghawk in the vic-hinity — then there’s nothing bloomin wrong with it. I mean, I’m sure a bird with a green head and a huge hooter poking out of it wearing a red tank top — whom, I may add can barely flap his delicious little body off the ground — won’t attract any h’unwanted h’attention at all. While we’re at it, why don’t we shove a ruddy great olive in his cakehole and sprinkle some salt and pepper on im?’ Alfie was puffing his breast out now. If he’d had lapels, he’d have been tucking his alulae behind them.2 ‘Do me a bloomin favour. He’ll be pooed-out on some bin’s titfer before you can say Cock Robinson.’3
Alfie let his oration hang there for a moment. Some spuggies cheeped agreement.
Chalkie remained unruffled. ‘Well done Alfie. Well done chaps and chapesses. Glad you spotted that,’ and with a ‘cheep’ he was off again.
You can purchase this novel from Amazon
About the author
The publicity-shy William Fagus lives in a remote location in an upturned fishing smack with a parrot and sundry antique musical instruments and carpentry tools.
The redoubtable Mrs Lush, his cleaning lady and confidant, is his most frequent visitor.
William Fagus’s biography, of uncertain origin and dubious veracity, is available here: http://www.williamfagus.com/fagus_biog.html