Not comedy

The brochure promised that we would see puffins in Vík, but we didn't see any.

"Because of the fog", the waitress told us, "they're all tucked-up in their beds!" Somewhere between dinner and the bill, she had decided we were simpletons.

I didn’t mind not seeing the puffins (they look like mimes); I was happy enough with the black-sand beaches. But Shelley was for the birds; she wanted the puffins to come out of their holes and was always on the lookout for a stray one.

And so, when on the beach I happened upon a dead gull with its head bitten off, I was overwhelmed by the comedic opportunity:

"Shelley—" I called, "a puffin!"

As soon as I said it, I sensed a misstep, but it was too late. Shelley had already entered into an excited tip-toe, eyes frantic and searching, like a blind puppy responding to the dinner bell. I could only wince and coax her back as she drew nearer to the headless gull.

This, once again, was not comedy that I had done, but a bad thing.