Holy cow, a dead crow

If I took a rather more tender farewell than usual of my wife it was because, as I told her, I did not know when I should return — if ever. For I had sworn by the fat little bellies of all the grinning idols I had ever known that I would destroy the one nesting crow on the shoot — and stay out until I had done so.

Although this threat made me feel something of a ‘martyr brave’, I had, in the back of my mind, an idea that, if this unspeakable crow could not be brought to book during the 12 hours of daylight left to me, I would steal up to her under cover of darkness and blow her up