I heard this during a cosy, feet-over-the-arms-of-the-soft-furnishings chinwag on the radio today. I thought at first that someone had carjacked my ears and replaced them with desiccated marshmallows. There was a wireless chat about taxidermy as art - all very interesting, until the nameless pundit made the unprovoked statement that, not so long ago as the crow flies, there used to be around a dozen taxidermists in every village and small town.
Can you believe that? What's the population of a small village, taking into account that it's hard to find one that isn't manacled to some city via a suburban sprawl? Ok. Forget sprawl. Just think demographically of a country yokeltown about, say, 40 or 50 years ago - 1963. (Well, I'm old enough to remember that a pre-decimalised pint of beer cost seven and a half pence in Kirkcaldy before I left. It's now around 40 times that much!) So I was there. I don't remember being offered a career in taxidermy then. Perhaps the career officer thought there were far too many of them as it was. But a dozen ... in every village?
Who would be left to do the blacksmithing, midwifery, baking, butchering, fishmongering, building, farming, teaching, doctoring, cobbling, knot-tying, etc., etc? And if you ever had the slapdashery to suggest a short, debonair jaunt in the family Roller to some neighbouring community, you'd never get out past all the stuffed animals. And if, before sundown of the following Tuesday, somehow you did manage to escape, you'd have to confront a similar assorted menagerie, of the cushiony variety, as you approached the freaktown of your destination. All those staring, glassy eyes, stiff tails and surprised expressions.
It doesn't bear thinking about. I wish I hadn't. I won't get to sleep now.
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