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After a very long wait there are finally some poultry scratching around in the back garden, or should I say yard, now that we’re pretty much fully sworn in Aussies? As a treat for the recently passed Mother’s Day – no idea why it’s different here to the rest of the world – the kids decided to get Mum something she really wanted. So, a flat-pack coop was duly ordered and despatched same day with a visit to our local farm shop confirming that chooks were ready to walk out the door.
The Saturday before was spent jobbing around the place as usual, drivers were charged and helpers engaged to unpack the coop. Expecting to find some basic instructions we searched through piece after piece of treated wood, mesh, roof parts, door parts, ramps and more mesh to find a single A5 sheet and a bag of screws and bolts. On the sheet were four exploded view diagrams, hastily sketched, blown up, copied a thousand times in Beijing and probably faxed around the world losing any detail they might have contained.
Initially seeming like a TV challenge show we soon had the main parts together but the trusty battery driver was knackered after just a few screws (sounds like me) and as I refuse to wear out any more of my body driving screws in the old fashioned way, a trip to the famous hardware superstore was called for. An early Father’s day present in the form of a much improved, faster charging driver capable of endless screws ( ah, if only… twenty years ago maybe…) was procured.
As soon as we got back on the job the Coop De Ville was finished in minutes and after pegging out a few metres of chicken wire just to keep the birds in one big corner, ‘Chooksville’ was ready for guests.
Next day amid much excitement the Tribe disembarked at the Farm Shop with Lottie leading the way to order up some hens. A brief family debate followed and we settled on five of the best laying Isa Browns. Imagine the kids’ horror and dismay ten minutes later when the farm hand stood in the doorway with five tied up hens hanging from both hands looking for all the world as though they’d been on the receiving end of a shooting party and their 12 bores!
“Are they dead?” exclaimed the kids in unison.
Relieved that it was only to calm them down and not have a feather flying, claw thrashing menagerie to drive home in we laid them gently in open trays in the back of the car. Minutes later they were untied and set free to roam the range chez Heatley, clucking and scratching as happy as could be.
They’ve settled in pretty well but as expected there are already requests to modify their humble abode with extra doors and more cosy downstairs accommodation. Sounds just like what I have to do to the big house. Best of all they’re straight into the lay popping out an egg a day, even delighting us with the first double-yolker.
We think they must be quite content little hens; the kids go in, tend to their water and food, collect any eggs and pet and coo with each of the named ladies. They decided to name each one after various family members – Grandma’s are popular – and there’s one Scarlett’s called Julia, not realising that’s the PM’s name. Must check Julia’s quota of eggs being laid; they’re bound to be fewer than the rest or subject to huge tax bills. Don’t think they’ve had it so good actually.
Look around and it’s all you see. 7 out of 10 travellers have things poked in their ears, white wires dangling around their person. I’m in the 3, not the MP3. Can’t stand the tsst, tsst, tsst, hope they all go deaf. Wilbur keeps me happy. Bags, laptops, shopping, papers, magazines, trolleys and bikes. What people need to travel to work with? No manners for sure. Nodding heads, sleepy minds, last night’s tv, picking noses, clipping finger nails, smudged make-up, make-up smudging. Nowhere to look, sunglasses on. Take some vitamin pills, bit of breakfast, pie, cake, toast, fruit, sushi anyone?
Minutes tick by.
Bounced and battered on the badly repaired springy seats. Will they catch the killer in the latest thriller? Novel if they do. Folded newspapers. More printed guff about NSW state politicians being in a state, a depressing state. No money here, get the taxpayers to pay, again. Cut this, scrap that. NRL on the front pages for the wrong reasons. Again. Bin Laden’s dead, William’s married. I’m still bored with all this. A machine says “doors closing”. Rush of schoolkids, swearing, pushing, shoving; just games. Shirts hanging out, holidaymaker sized bags. Lunchboxes of salad and sarnies. Neatly pressed uniforms for the bank, ties, coats, brollies, more bags.
More minutes tick by.
Shoes never polished, I hate that. Shirts not ironed properly, that I hate more, wear a T instead, scruff bag. Dirty windows, graffiti scored into the glass or burned on with a lighter, bubblegum always on the seats. Feet on the seats, fines apply. No wonder they’re cheap. 60 bucks for 700 kilometres in a week if you like. Without air con, except on chilly winter mornings. Stifling in the summer, travel with a drink they say. Water they mean, not ice cold goldies. Cobwebs in the corners of the windows. Cockroaches race along the floor disappear down the cracks. Seat wars, stuffy air, spread out a little more, keep out the intruder. Ring tones, patchy reception, stupid conversations. No reception, tunnels under Sydney. More pages please Wilbur. Too much perfume, not enough deodorant, stifling people smells. Have to get out, get off the loser cruiser.
Too much time gone. Forever gone.
