Nearly two months ago, my girlfriend and I found a parrot nestled in branches that had broken off a tree, on the roadside. Quite content admiring its beauty, I made a comment on the bird's colourful feathers and kept walking. My girlfriend stopped, stared at the parrot and suggested we take it home. She insisted that the bird wasn't well and we could do something to make it better. I've never held a parrot in my hand, leave alone taking it home and nursing it back to health!
In a moment of compassion, the bird found itself wrapped up in my jacket, being hijacked to an undisclosed location. My apartment. We found a box, punched holes, filled it with bits of paper, water and pieces of fruit. We decided to call the bird Paris. The box lay on the couch in my balcony, emitting strange, parrot whines.
Paris was a noisy parrot. I decided it couldn't stay in my flat, so we carried the box to my girlfriend's sister's neighbouring apartment. I wondered what would happen to this bird. Would it survive the night? Would it ever fly again?
The next day, I found two parrots in my balcony. They were agitated and flew away when I offered them bits of broken bread. Later, my girlfriend's sister told us an incredible story. Paris was let out of its box to roam the balcony. Two parrots flew up to the railing and helped him up on the railing. They propped the injured bird up and coaxed it to fly. Legend has it that the three birds flew off into the bright sunlight for more adventures.