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Definitely Not A Vegetarian
Okay. I know this is Europe and everything, but this has to stop.
Why is that danged stone eagle following us everywhere?
Kip shrugs. “It’s Europe. They’re autocratic and presumptuous.”
I look at him askance. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. I read it in a book.”
We stop at a little place in Devon that has pasties of all flavors. I choose Stilton while Kip chooses steak and kidney. We eat the pasties outside and look up to see the stone eagle.
“Throw him a bit of yours,” Kip says. I do. Nothing.
“Throw him a bit of yours,” I say.
Suddenly the stone eagle dips down upon us. I screech.
“He’s not a vegetarian,” Kip says.
I gulp. Check body parts. “No.”
Kip nods. “We’re not vegetables.”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“I really like Boston,” Kip says, tossing his knapsack over his shoulder, half-running, half-skipping away.
“I can pretty much hear it calling.”
Kip throws the remainder of his pasty behind us as we run for a taxi.