The Twelve Days of Christmas: 2
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: two turtle doves.
At first, I puzzled over this gift - what did it mean? Why two turtle doves? - until my true love lapsed into a laughable attempt at Cockney rhyming slang.
“Turtle dove equals love. Oh, you know - feast yer mince pies on that? Up the old apples ‘n’ pears? Cor blimey, guv’nor. Born wivvin the sahnd o’ bow bells, innit?”
I couldn’t stop sniggering, but at least I got the idea.
So the two turtle doves took up residence with us, living in the grandest gilded cage that our meagre funds could buy. My true love and I spent the long dark nights wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the doves cooing gently to one another. They were falling more and more in love, just as we were.
Winter came and went, and one spring morning I pulled the cover from the cage to find our two doves sitting at opposite ends of the perch, their backs turned, each refusing to look at the other. Their feathers were ruffled; a couple lay on the floor of the cage, obviously having been pulled out in the heat of a violent argument.
My true love and I spent the rest of the day considering the situation carefully, whilst sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, our backs turned, refusing to look each other.
“It’s obvious that your dove upset my dove,” said my true love, firmly and dispassionately. “I think you should move out and take your dove with you. You can have half the bird-seed, but I insist on keeping the cage.”
I packed my bags. We divided up the spoils of our relationship, agreeing surprisingly amicably on who owned which books and CDs. Finally, it was time for me to take my turtle dove and depart. There was only one problem.
“So which is your dove, and which is mine?” I asked.
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