The little one had been having a naughty time pecking her sistren and running away. On being collared, she relaxed and sagged heavy, legs dangling, leaving me wondering what to do with a handful of inert chicken. This is turning into the chicken blog. I no longer have time for normal life.
Christmas here is not the elegant festival of modern myth. The bathroom wants cleaning, the Genoa cake isn’t (planning failures), the social atmosphere is a little odd owing to circumstances beyond my control, and tomorrow morning my Christmas skirt will be held up by a safety pin as I haven’t had time to take in the waist.
On the other hand, we have a tree, mulled wine, dinner and company 🙂
We also found a packet of small fireworks which has been hanging about for a few years due to an earlier inefficiency. As we are good neighbours we carefully picked out those labelled ‘fountain’, as we didn’t want the local children looking for Santa too soon.
This was fine, until the ‘fountain’ which sparkled prettily, then began to emit ear-shredding shrieks. Telling it to shut up was somewhat ineffective. Giggling was also NOT helpful (you know who you are).
Turtle Diary: Book by Russell Hoban, but I was watching the 1980s film version, starring Glenda Jackson and Ben Kingsley.
The book has many details left out of the film, but the film is also full of details not in the book. Neaera H stirs her tea with the handle of a dodgy spoon. William G holds the steering wheel of the van in a death grip, peering through huge lenses. And doesn’t the M4 look empty? Wrings the heart, warms the cockles, teases out of thought.
“Bum a ride on the turtles?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought.”
“No, I hadn’t thought either. Makes a change, doesn’t it?”
My ancient VHS tape is starting to go, and I can’t find a DVD version to buy, so what will I do then?
The Seramas are occupying the conservatory and occasionally the kitchen. Failing to watch the feet leads to small smelly squelches. I fear it could also lead to small flat chickens, and how would I ever explain that?
When they go to bed they indulge in a curious ritual. I’m not sure if this is nesting behaviour or a dustbath to condition the feathers. They sprawl, flap, turn themselves upside down. Tonight Lena looked like a destroyed feather duster, such was her ecstasy of flufferation.
is a pointless activity. However I did quite a lot of it during Mount St Elias, a film about some lunatics who climbed a large mountain for the sole purpose of skiing down its vast, sheer and appalling slopes, and a few other lunatics who helped them do it.
The chaps were pretty annoying; my rebukes rotated between “Oh for goodness’ sake shut up”, “What are you THINKING?” and “UUUURGH!“. But the the images were extraordinary. It was a crime to watch it on a laptop; a 60-inch HD screen would be the minimum it deserved. Should you happen to have such an item to hand, watch the film – but maybe with the sound down.