I have made an error. I should like to record it.
For some weeks I had been observing, from my usual safe distance, a small population of geese on the far side of the park pond. Geese are, generally, unwilling correspondents. They do not encourage approach. I had no reason to believe today would be different.
I should not have approached.
It is difficult, in retrospect, to identify the precise moment at which approach became commitment. I was, at one point, six metres away. I had a thought. The thought was: a closer look. The next thought was: ah.
Geese do not retreat. This is a thing about geese which I now understand on a level I did not, previously, understand it. The goose in question lifted its wings. It hissed. It came toward me at a speed which seemed, frankly, illegal in a wild bird.
I retreated in the direction of the Bald Man, who I had, at some earlier point, abandoned. I was not running. I was, however, walking rather more briskly than is my custom, and at one point I performed what I can only describe as a sideways manoeuvre. The goose did not pursue me far. The goose had, by then, made its point.
The Bald Man was very kind about the whole thing. He did not laugh, which was a great mercy. He simply said, “Come away, Harvey,” and walked beside me back toward the path, without looking at me, which was the right thing to do.
I shall not approach a goose again. I have noted this in my logs. Beneath the entry I have written, in capital letters, NEVER, which is the most emphatic punctuation I am willing to use.