Dumped, Actually(35)
‘Shoo!’ I say lightly, flapping the non-penis-holding hand about ineffectually.
They do not shoo.
In fact, Bambi now starts to root around in my rucksack with his nose. There’s a Belvita soft bake in there somewhere I was planning on having for breakfast. That’s probably what the little guy is after. I’m sure the scent of a chocolate oat soft bake is like manna from heaven to a herbivore such as he.
‘Please shoo,’ I say again. ‘Shoo, shoo, shoo.’
The doe looks at me quizzically. She probably can’t decide if I’m asking her to go away, or fetch me the nearest available footwear.
Neither is allowed to happen, because at this point, dad turns up.
This was inevitable. You don’t get a doe and a baby deer in your tent for long, without daddy deer turning up to see what’s going on.
Dad’s got a big pair of antlers parked on his noggin, though, so he can’t actually get into the tent with me. He settles for peeking in over his offspring’s rump, sniffing and rolling his eyes.
That sodding Belvita. I knew I should have just bought a bag of porridge.
Speaking of said delightful breakfast treat, Bambi has now pulled it out of the rucksack and is trying to chew his way through the foil wrapping.
This distracts his mother from her continued inspection of my person. She turns her head and sniffs at the Belvita, just as the youngster finally manages to get at the soft bake within the foil.
All three are now distracted by the oaty bar of chewy goodness, which is probably a good time for me to get the hell out of here. Maybe if I evacuate the tent, the family of Belvita fans will do so as well.
I slowly turn around and start to pull up the tent canvas behind me. The canvas is very tight and taut, but I manage to open enough of a gap to squeeze my head and shoulders through.
At no point during this do I think to pull up my boxer shorts or jeans.
Which is why, about three seconds later, as I’m half out of the tent, I feel the cold and slightly wet feel of a small deer’s nose upon my bottom – in an area still mostly devoid of hair, thanks to Laughlin McPurty.
‘Maaggahaana!’ I exclaim as the nose probes areas that no nose should probe.
It would appear that I am able to speak an alien language when I have a baby deer’s nose up my bottom, as well as when I’m on a rollercoaster.
Good to know.
To get away from this unexpected and unwelcome development, I start to yank myself forward at high speed across the grass, like a soldier under fire. All the time I’m doing this, I’m screaming – also much like a soldier under fire, probably. The slow-moving virtual paralysis that consumed me with the initial shock of finding deer in my tent has evaporated, to be replaced by an energetic desire to remove myself from their vicinity with as much haste as the human body allows.
I cover a good ten feet of dewy grass in about three nanoseconds. It would have been even faster if I wasn’t still dragging my boxer shorts around my ankles.
I really do need to pull those up at some point, before I have to start asking some serious questions about myself.
I do that very thing, and grimace as I yank the soggy black material up over my privates. My jeans are long gone. I think I lost them during the tent escape.
In the rapidly dwindling evening light, I can see the deer family starting to remove themselves from the tent. Dad backs away first, then mum, and junior brings up the rear, his face covered in Belvita crumbs.
The little bastard. I was really looking forward to that.
It’s at this point I realise that my woodland glade is actually full of deer. I can count a good dozen surrounding my campsite. It would seem that I inadvertently chose a favourite foraging ground of some of the New Forest’s finest fallow deer to make my camp. No wonder the grass was so trimly chopped.
I watch as the family amble their way back over to the other members of the herd. The father deer snorts a few times. And then he does something that makes my blood run cold. He looks right at me.
As soon as he does this, all of the other deer also look right at me.
Fifteen sets of ruminant eyes staring at you through the gloom of twilight goes way beyond disconcerting. We’re entering the territory of being properly alarmed, here. And maybe even a little terrified.
Slowly, the deer all start to move towards me. Bambi is at the front of the herd, still licking his chops.
‘I don’t have any more Belvitas,’ I tell him. ‘All the Belvitas are gone now.’
I’m still speaking in that soft and irritating English-butler voice – because God forbid I actually do something horrible like spook the bloody deer, eh?
‘Please leave me alone,’ I entreat, without having any effect whatsoever. ‘I really don’t have any more food on me.’
By way of demonstration, I pull the sides of my boxer shorts out a few inches, in the time-honoured gesture, to show that my pockets are empty. As my boxer shorts don’t have any pockets, I just look like I’m putting on some kind of bizarre display for the deer, like one of those tropical birds with its wings splayed open. I might as well start dancing around in a circle and have done with it.
Bambi and pals are having none of it, though. They are unconvinced by my display. They clearly believe I am the holder of more delicious Belvitas and will not stop until they have shaken me down for every last one.
‘No more Belvitas!’ I say, trying to sound harsh. I even jab a finger at them to show just how authoritative I am. It’s the gesture of someone fully in command of the situation. Surely they must realise now that I am being serious about my lack of soft bakes? My finger is as pointy as it can possibly be!