The Strange and Mundane World of Molly Cule

So I hadn’t had much sleep last night and I’m running late to work, but that’s ok, nothing unusual. I get in, check my email, and there’s a few forwards from one of my bosses. Again, nothing unusual. One warns about card skimmers at ATMs,all  very useful stuff, and the other seems to be something about birds so I click on it.

There’s a picture of  a jet engine with holes all through it. A few more shots of planes with big holes. This should have been enough information to tell me to CLOSE THE DAMN EMAIL. But I had to look, didn’t I? I skimmed through a few more, each getting more bloody and brutal with cormorants smashed against windscreens and blood coming through control panels.

Then I saw the owl, and I just lost it.

Now, I’m a bird person. Some people are cat people, some like dogs, some like reptiles or fish or dolphins or giraffes or elephants. Me, I like all animals but I especially like birds. I love birds. I get birds, birds make more sense to me than most people, and I really have a soft spot for parrots, corvids . . . and owls.

I love owls. I even have one tattooed on my leg. And seeing one gorgeous big, dark-grey owl contorted and embedded in a jet engine was really not how I wanted to start my day.

Please keep your owls in a non-smashed-up condition

I lost it. I don’t even know why. I’m not even the emotional type. To make things worse, I was on reception so every time someone came past my desk they’d ask if I was ok and I’d lose it again (being a redhead, I don’t hide crying very well). It took me most of the morning to compose myself and I’ve felt horrible all day, like my body was filled with a venom I couldn’t discharge and all I wanted was a nice, big G&T and a lie down. My supervisor went and had a quiet word to the boss over it (i.e., Molly doesn’t want to see pictures of smashed up animals, thanks), and I know he didn’t mean any harm (we’ve got a few ex-RAF/RAAF members in the office who’d be interested in aviation stuff) but still . . . that poor owl . . . 

(disclaimer – I’m not squeamish. I’ve got a strong stomach and a sound head on me. I’ve worked in areas dealing with deceased people and seen (and smelt) all sorts of things, but damn it, I can’t stand seeing animals come to harm. And yes, I did snorgle my budgies when I got home, and yes, it did help.)