“I’m what?”

“You heard me.  You’re a few feathers shy of a duck.”

“If that means what I think it means, you’re in trouble.”

“And what do you think it means?”

“You’re telling me I’m two snags short of a barbecue, or a tinnie short of a six pack!  Right?”

Eric laughed at me, his dark eyes sparkling with happiness.  “You got it”, he said.  “How can anybody with any intelligence NOT understand the American political system?”

“I only said that your candidates seemed to spend two years using all their time and money fighting each other instead of getting together and fighting the opposition.”

“And your system is better? What’s this with the preferences?  Your vote can eventually go to the opposition, can’t it?”

He had me there, so I gave in gracefully.  “I didn’t say the Australian system is perfect.  Personally, I think it’s awful, but I think your system is worse!”

“Hold it, hold it,” he laughed.  “We’re here in London on neutral ground, so let’s call it quits.  After all, we’re supposed to be enjoying our honeymoon, not starting World War Three!  And how long is it since we both left our countries to fend for themselves?”

“Ten years, and I am enjoying it,” I told him, squeezing his hand.  “Shy of a duck?  Shouldn’t that be short of a duck?”

We continued wrangling amicably all the way up to Trafalgar Square, where we sat in the rare English sunshine for a while watching the other tourists throwing bread to the pigeons.  The birds certainly weren’t shy of coming forward to grab whatever bounty was thrown their way, in fact some were downright assertive, perching on the shoulders and heads of their benefactors, while cameras clicked out a staccato counterpoint to their cooing.

Nelson surveyed the scene from his lofty perch, and I wondered if he was turning a blind eye to the pigeon poop on his hat and shoulders.

“Why a duck, anyway?”

“What?”

“Why would I be a few feathers short of a duck?  Shy I mean.”

“It’s what we always say.  Who knows where these sayings come from?  Build me a time machine and I’ll go back into the past to when it was first said, and ask the bloke why.  OK?”

“I’d do anything for you, but that’s a tall order.  The specs haven’t been released to the public, and never will be.” I replied.  “I guess they are worried that if just anybody could lay their hands on one, they could go back and change the past so that it affects the present. 

“Me for instance.  If I could go back, I’d head for the 1800’s and I’d pay just a few pounds for a big stretch of the Swan River foreshore upriver of Perth.  Then I’d bring the title deeds back to the present day.  Instant billionaire!  Or that kid who bullied me in school just because I’m gay, I’d want to go back and buy his father a lifetime’s supply of condoms.”

“Angus!  You idiot.  You’d be better off going back and buying Manhattan Island from the Indians for a handful of beads.  Instant gazillionnaire!”

It was fun to compare levels of greed in such a novel setting, but totally unnecessary.  As joint inventors of the Earth-Luna Teleport, between us we could have bought out King Midas and Bill Gates and still have had change for a mansion or three. 

That’s why we could afford to honeymoon on Earth instead of in one of the Luna caverns where we’d never get away from business and other distractions.

Eric stood up and offered me his hand to help me up too.  “Come on, you lazy bum, it’s time to go hunt up lunch.”

“Who are you calling a bum, you Yankee bastard?  You want to eat French, Italian or Chinese?”

“Let’s go Italian.  I’m hopeless with Chinese, but I can read an Italian menu with one eye tied behind my back!”

We walked in the direction of the nearest teleport booth, and punched in Rome into the keypad, and charged our fare to my credit card.  As VIP’s we could have gone to the head of the queue, but preferring to keep our anonymity we awaited our turn for one of the departure pads.

Eric turned to me, grinning.  “Hey, I wonder if they sell duck in Roman restaurants?  I fancy roast duck, completely shy of all its feathers, of course!”