How much is that chicken in the window?
I was having tea at my neighbour Rebecca’s tonight when we suddenly heard a great flutter and clucking. It sounded much closer than the usual cluckings of the chickens that wander our compound. We looked outside to find the groundskeeper Monica’s chicken sitting in Rebecca’s living room window, happily clucking away. Considering the current furor about avian flu, we decided the chicken should probably not sit in the window (about 2 feet from my head). She also appeared quite excited, so we feared she was stuck there, like a cat up a tree. I picked her up and gently placed her on the ground while she clucked bloody murder, seemingly immune to my soft mutterings of “good chicken.”
About five minutes later she was back in the window again. As I often do here, I thrust my hands up in the air and resigned myself to Fate, placidly chiding myself for expecting what I considered reasonable to prevail. The chicken would henceforth live in the window. Eventually Innocent, my guard from the D.R. Congo, arrived, and I excitedly shouted “Innocent, il y a une poule sur la fenêtre!” There are some situations that French class just doesn’t prepare you for. Innocent explained the chicken was looking for a place to roost for the night, and sure enough, she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He then carried her around back to her chicken house.
She left some droppings on Rebecca’s porch. When I returned home I discovered, perhaps just in case I was feeling unloved because my window was not fit for roosting, she had defecated all over my porch as well.
posted by Cara at 8:35 PM
1 Comments:
Dear Cara,
I begin with two apologies.
The first is for what must be a flagrant breach blogger protocol - appropriating the comments section to compose what clearly, already, is not a comment.
The second is for not breaching this protocol earlier.
Next, I wanted to say thanks for regaling us with your adventures from across the Sea of Atlas. "How?" you ask? By - wait for it - boring you with an example of the mundane goings on back here in Toronto the Good.
So, here we go.
This morning I stirred from an unrestful slumber and broke my fast with Cheerios, Chips Ahoy cookies purchased last night from Shoppers Drug Mart, and orange juice. There was a dog on my second floor balcony. She is not my dog. I believe she belongs to the family in the apartment next to mine, squeezing her way past the barrier separating our respective units when it suits her fancy. I decided to name her Eliana. If it turns out that she is a he I'll call him Eli. It was going to be a full day, so when I made my way to the Bloor subway station it was still dark outside. Sometimes its nice to start the day in the dark and greet the sunrise. The freezing rain that decended upon us yesterday afternoon had turned to proper snow, falling lightly. It felt and smelled like winter in Toronto for the first time in a while. Given the hour, I was able to find a seat on the train. There was a lady with an orange scarf and a guide dog seated in the bank of seats across from me. The theme to the movie "Castaway" was plaing on my iPod when the second dog I had seen in the span of half an hour led the lady in the orange scarf out at the King Street station. In the course of the day, I met a Mrs. Bell. I also had a chance to learn something something new this afternoon about buildings and construction. The subway on the ride home was more crowded than it had been on the ride to work. I got off at Bay station. The Killers' Mr. Brightside was playing as I made my way through the small underground promenade which leads out to Cumberland Avenue. There is a bench at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the street. It is always occupied. Always. This evening there was a young couple seated on its west end. The boy, wearing an old Cleveland Cavaliers baseball cap was resting his eyes and playing with the his girlfriend's right hand. She rested her head on his left shoulder. There were other bits and pieces to the day. More bits than pieces. But that's because its a Wednesday, if you ask me.
I hope the above account was a boring enough snipet of life on this side of the Drink for you to smirk at us from your little corner of the world.
I close with the obvious.
We all miss you and hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Uganda.
Hasta Luego, Señora Gibbons.
Post a Comment
<< Home