The year was 60 odd years after those fuckers finally packed up and left us in pieces. Bastards had the audacity to claim they tried to civilise us, while all they did was suck us completely dry for 200 years. And the hot pile of shyte they left was is the reason for where I was, both physically and metaphorically

Dad was the oldest of the brood of the youngest of 4 siblings orphaned by the previously mentioned shyte. People often talked of their ancestral trees. I had a 2 generation stump, completely pruned except for the names of pa's grandparents. As soon as he was able to, he joined the army to go meet new people at new places, and kill them there. 7 years later he met a senior officer's daughter, and that starts my personal backstory.

Years later, 11 to be exact, I was right up against the base of those most magnificent of ranges, with plains at the front, and the hills at my back. Dad was here because those bastards across the line were contesting our rightful control of the land we were sitting on, and he was here to make sure that the their land-grab didn't increase beyond what they had. Funny thing, among those bastards were people who had the exact same backstory and opinion as us, just batting for the other team.

Dad was the top boss-man at that place, with a whole unit of men at his beck and call. And he did beckon and call for lots of goodies for little ol' me. I was his pride and joy, however much the pain of a boil on his arse I might have been, second generation army brat and all that I was.

During the vacations visiting dad was a gentleman from a long lineage of hill hunters, and his son. Hunter junior wanted to try his hand at partridge hunting, with his double barrelled 12-gauge walnut stocked beauty. So I was volunteered as a spotter for him by my father, who thought getting up at 5:30 A.M. built character, not to mention great breakfasts of partridge.

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We went out in the chill morning(we had a minder, mind you), with mist lightly sitting across the bushes spread out across the fallow fields all around us. My job as the spotter was to peer into bushes and let Junior know if I spotted anything. And scare the out the opposite side of the bush, so he could shoot em. We went though a hundred bushes, and I managed to scare out only one set of partridges during that time. Even worse, the birds managed to get away from his double barreled 12-gauge.

Finally, with the sun starting to get strong overhead, we stopped under a tree to water ourselves and calm down from that not too close a call with breakfast. While leaning back onto the grass, Junior had the fortune to look into the tree and spot a pair of green-headed parrots.

Let me tell you, to a hungry hunter, they looked as plump and filling as a whole brace of partridges. So up he went the barrels, and a couple of loud bangs later, we were staring at breakfast that looked a little green. I felt a little green looking at them too.

However, Junior was a true-bred descendent of his ancestral lineage. He cleaned up those poor beautiful birds into an even better looking pair of stick spits ready to be roasted on the open flame he quickly built. That delicious smell of well-done parrot was something my 11 year nose had never ever experienced. The best part of that meal was that the taste matched the smell.

Once our stomachs, appetites and consciences settled post-breakfast, we headed back home like conquerors, even if in miniature. The sun was high up and we were wiped by the time we got home. Iced drinks were waiting for us, with us being treated as colonial royalty.

Once hale and hearty again, we were pumped for the activity log, which was the cause of much mirth once the story of the parrots was narrated.

However, nothing beats that taste of parrot, even today. Well, except pork obviously. But pigs can't fly.