"And here we have a donkey in an iron lung." I registered my displeasure
that our guide flouted basic language dogma in opting to start a sentence
with 'and'. That said, the donkey was pretty impressive, lying there
passively, its large fluttery donkey eyes looking up at the crowds looking
down on it, the rhythmic breath of the iron lung working in that way that an
iron lung does to cure those nasty things that it cures - the bubbles in the
blood thing divers get by resurfacing too quickly that sounds a tiny bit
like rickets. That's probably what the donkey had. I didn't dare ask the
guide exactly why the donkey was in the iron lung; there comes a point in
every day when I just can't handle any more floutation without going
dangerously quiet, I wasn't going to risk her flouting some other way.
"And here we have another donkey in an iron lung." I coughed. This wasn't
the time to go quiet, this was a recurrence of the first incident; if
quantified this floutation would only count for half the original points,
just a momentary lapse to be reminded with a cough and apologised with a
nod. Any further transgression would count for one and a half times the
points, and would push me over the edge, not that they'd fucking notice,
fucking insensitive fuckers who don't fucking know what I'm fucking thinking
when I don't tell them. "The difference between this donkey and the last
donkey," continued the guide, whom we'd earlier been invited to call Chloe
even though it wasn't her real name, "is that this donkey has been in the
iron lung for just two days, whereas the previous donkey has been there for
three. If you'll observe and compare the lustre in the two sets of eyes
you'll understand the good work we're doing here." It was true: the eyes of
this donkey were less lustrous than the first. This donkey was visibly
uncomfortable to be in an iron lung, yet the first donkey had that extra
day's experience and was just lying back, getting the cure, and it could be
seen in his or her eyes - I'm not Superman, I can't see through iron, and
even if I were I'd respect the privacy of the donkey, and base my opinion of
himer on hiser personality and not subscribe to cheap gender stereotypes.
"Hi Tom," she said to Tom. "This is Tom," she said to us, introducing us to
Tom. "He feeds the donkeys. Who are you feeding now Tom?" she said to us and
Tom, telling us that Tom feeds the donkeys and then asking Tom which donkey
he was feeding. Tom explained to us using a series of devolved wall
scrapings that he was feeding Lucky, a donkey who had had the most unlucky
of lives, and was only now receiving the treatment that every donkey
deserves. Lucky had been in an iron lung for four days, and was snarfing
down fish like there was no tomorrow. Tom etched that he had put in an extra
order of fish just to keep Lucky from breaking free of her necessary prison
and running amok in search of the perfect plaice. He then invited any of us
who wanted to feed Lucky to come up and grab a fish. We were informed that
there were no sinks in which to wash our hands, but that we could wipe our
hands on our clothes, or do what Tom did and lick our fingers clean. Many of
the more sedate members of our party elected to pass, but I fancied an
opportunity to check the lustre in the eyes of this donkey, and see if the
difference between days two and three would continue between days three and
four.
"And now we come to the piece de resistance." I went dangerously quiet, no
cough, no glare; I thought we'd cultivated a respectful rapport, but it
seems I was wrong. That she'd pronounced piece de resistance as wholly
English didn't register until later, much later. I switched off and tried to
imagine some music in my head to listen to. I recall a donkey was there,
presumably one which had been in an iron lung for five days; there were some
mechanical devices, perhaps tracking devices, perhaps heartrate monitors, I
can only speculate. I do know that the donkey was released into the wild,
but I wasn't there enough to take in any details about aftercare. My notes
suggest that we were invited to make a donation in Canadian dollars, and
that if we wanted to pay using the only money any of us had in our wallets a
small fee would be levied, but at the time I didn't take any of that in, nor
do I remember making notes. These notes go on to explain that paying in
Canadian dollars even though that isn't the currency of the land was for tax
reasons so that more money would go to help the donkeys and pay the wages of
the backroom staff that we didn't see. If the backroom staff were anything
like the frontroom staff - with the exception of Tom - my donation was going
to be in English pounds, and yah boo sucks to them.