Cyril Rum was different to all of the people on Bush Street. Cyril was an angel. An angel on sabbatical as fate would have it who wore his human mask so well no one knew his true identity. That was apart from his neighbour Mildred Thrup who having no friends realised Cyril was the only one she was likely to have and so kept mum about him.
Cyril was intrigued by the human practice of the backyard BBQ but as he had an aversion to fire he had resisted all efforts by Mildred to engage in one. To Cyril, fire was a concept rather than a reality and one assigned in his mind to the downstairs department in the building where he worked, nine to five eight days a week.
He was amused by humans sticking to the seven-day week as he realised it was his boss’ little joke to convince the world there were seven days when in fact there were eight. It was he knew a sneaky way in which eternity had two days of rest instead of the earthly one.
But one balmy evening Mildred invited Cyril over and had the BBQ implements laid out, the fire already burning. Cyril sat well back wondering what good could come from this small inferno. As a young apprenticed Angel had his wings singed one day and had been cautious ever since.
He watched Mildred fuss about, chatting endlessly as was her want until she served him a plate of what to Cyril looked like a burnt offering. Being polite he cut himself a piece of the cooked meat and sank his angelic teeth into it.
Never had he tasted anything like it and by evenings end had helped himself to seconds and made Mildred give him the recipes she had used.
Later he thought to himself, upstairs would be intrigued by the evening’s activity. Learning from humanity was always such a novelty.