Chicken on the Barbie

My darling wife was persauded into bringing home someone's pet rooster. As the elderly former owner was all torn up about him becoming coq au vin, arroz con pollo or even just plain old roast, he was kept seperate and in the old hen-coop (now the garlic and onion plantation) while negotiations to find a new home continued. We'd just found him the place where all good chickens go (not the pot, his name was Annie, not Jonathan Segal Chicken) and all he had to do was overnight and behave himself. Alas this too much of challenge, and he flew the coop... to roost (not roast) on that last relic of my South African heritage, the stainless steel braai (aka Barbie, the things you throw chimps onto) just outside Barbs study window. He was just sitting there (the H is silent) and crowing about his vast cleverness when I got up about half five - still rather dark.

I was not impressed, by the crowing or about his... sitting spot. In haste I left the house. (in the interest of public decency... well actually because there is no public for 2km around, cold, I had a pair of jeans on, a polar fleece and my slippers.) I grabbed a landing net and a handful of grain. By the time I got half way there the stupidness of doing this in slippers had come home to me - the grass was wet with a heavy dew. Cocky fellow eyes my approach net behind my back with trepidation and half open wings. So I hold out the handful of grain. Huh. He takes a peck. This not his morning bread! and leaps off onto the woodpile and bounds away across the garden, me in hot (well, actually cold and wet) pursuit.

He led me a merry dance, much encouraged by the pig (where is my breakfast! If you have to disturb me WHERE IS MY BREAKFAST and the dogs (still in my office, snoring until the comotion passed by. I managed to net the fowl fiend with a lucky scoop, transfer him to a cat-cage (from whence he was released to spoiling and three lovely young hens) and go in to lament my sodden slippers and not too dry self, let loose the hounds - who felt very deprived and feed the dratted pig before it flew the pen too. That would take more than a mere landing net.

We had our Scottish dance instructress's 99th birthday dance on Thursday night. Not a lot of people are still dancing at 99. Quite a shindig. She made us all dance.

I went off to catch snapper yesterday morning - no snapper (although the cats got cat fish, and we got a flathead) and limped home with the outboard being funny... nervy stuff.