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The Flying Pigeon
by Callisto
“You never.”
“Certainly did. Last one in the shop’n all. I had to elbow someone out the way for this.”
He rattled a flat box which Doyle squinted to read. Too late. Never one to be thwarted in his enthusiasms, Bodie had the box opened and spilled out onto the kitchen table in the time it took Doyle to shake his head and tut loudly.
Bodie bent to his task and ignored him.
“Piece of cake, sunshine, put this little lot together and we’ll be lighting up the Dulwich skies in no time.”
“Lighting up your eyebrows in no time, more like. I’m having nothing to do with it.”
“Ah, don’t be like that, it’ll be fun. Find us the instructions, there’s a good lad.”
“Oh, certainly, sir. Heaven forbid sir should look for himself.”
Doyle got his hip bumped for that, but he nevertheless rummaged in the bottom of the box until he found a piece of paper, which he dutifully unfolded, read and then bit his lip hard to keep from laughing at.
A heart-pounding twenty minutes later, Bodie had carpet burns on his bum, stars in his eyes, and a semi-naked Doyle plastered to his chest.
“Not that I’m not grateful or anything, sunshine, but what,” he heaved in a breath, clutching Doyle to him for balance as much as anything, “the bloody hell was that?”
Doyle reached out to snag a piece of paper, which had fluttered to the floor just before he’d pounced. He raised his head enough to grin.
“That, mate, was me following directions for once. Here.”
And sure enough there it was, in black and white:
“ ‘The Flying Pigeon’ A super setpiece full of drama and humour. Flies a long way if correctly erected. Follow the set up instructions carefully.”
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