The Eccentric Robin

Hmmm. I’m Robin and, according to the label, I’m eccentric. I might argue with that. Fine, a Robin holding a conversation might be labelled eccentric, but  I swear that’s the only thing.

True, a swearing Robin might be taken as further proof, but honestly, I don’t see you hanging the eccentric label on madam here. Our should that be miss? Giving us all that come on look while probably hiding behind a coy smile, and she has the cheek to display wings. Angelic, my foot, or should that be claw? I mean, who would you trust? A stone temptress or a cute, little Robin red breast?

Actually, I have some issues with that. It’s not that I’m a male chauvinist or anything, but surely don’t we associate the term breast with the female gender. Yes, it’s a world of political correctness but you would never go up to Arnie Schwarzenegger and say ‘You’ve a lovely breast.’ So, and as my wife has a perfect brown breast, perhaps you could call me Robin red chest. Do you know, I think I might be eccentric? Oh well, ho hum.