reminded me what happened the last time I did that, which seemed a bit odd because I’d never met him before.
It was Z who suggested visiting the Toucan Tango. ‘We’ll try the Touc, atmosphere’s incredible, the staff are extremely pleasant, and it stays open after hours on a Wednesday.’ He has very good taste when it comes to bars and the like, and I was glad we’d got over all that stuff with his lighter.
If the name hadn’t lodged itself in my memory, the fibreglass toucan inside the lobby would have done. While we were queueing for the cloakroom, I noticed it, sitting on a perch, immediately to the right of the attendant’s desk. The queue passed a yard in front of it, although no one else seemed that interested. When I reached it, I couldn’t help running my hand along the toucan’s beak. It squawked, flapped its wings and bit my finger, leaving a sharp, red mark just below the knuckle.
‘What have I told you about the bloody toucan?’ the cloakroom attendant asked.
I was too busy rubbing my finger to protest. The attendant left his post, grabbed me by the lapels, looked me in the eye and
Jason Jawando writes prose and drama. He has had work published in Prole, Confluence and Under the Radar among others. He lives in the West Midlands and has an MA in Creative Writing from the OU.
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