She wakes from another nightmare of being stalked by bubblegum coloured drumstick-birds with beaks the size of fists. She’s sweating. They got close this time. Their evil intentions clear in their eyes.
She breathes deeply.
Flamingos are fine, they’re fine. (By fine she means, “Cerise wankers with judgemental eyes” but her therapist is not in support of that description).
Sure, they have a place in the world (in swamps), not in her dreams, certainly not sent to her dressing room ahead of performances.
“Om mani padme hum”, she chants quietly.
There has to be a way to de-flamingo her life.