There’s a goose in the bathroom, honking in the sink. It’s there, it tells me with an expressive twist of the neck, to escape the storm we all know is coming; the storm those responsible haven’t yet named, but will of necessity be called something from the darker end of the Bible or related myths. I’ve never thought about who chooses these names before, and though I could easily Google it, my phone’s on charge downstairs, so I ask the goose if it knows, as it has an indefinable look of wisdom and, besides, Google and goose are so close you could barely slip a cigarette paper between them. It tells me that, globally, it’s the WMO, but that locally it’s the Western Group of the UK Met Office, Met Éireann, and KNMI in the Netherlands. I’m both reassured in my assessment of the goose as repository of all I need to know, and impressed by its ability to communicate precise information through body language and the occasional light hiss. I ask if it would mind leaving the room while I perform my morning ablutions, and it slaps to the tiled floor and waddles onto the landing. As I’m closing the door, it picks up on my mention of cigarette papers and asks if I mind if it smokes. Do as you please, I tell it. Mijn huis is jouw huis. There’s a storm coming.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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