“I’m worried,” said Mimo, “about noisy neighbors.”
“Man City?” was my unthinking response.
“Pay attention, god, I’m talking.”
“That should be on a t shirt.”
She looked as she was going to break the rule of a lifetime and offer violence
towards her god. Wanting to head off an historic event, The Great Poultry
Revolt of 2021, I focused. “Describe these neighbors.”
“Large, blue…”
“Man City play in blue. Alex Ferguson of Man United—the managed who coined the
phrase, ‘squeaky bum time’— called them 'noisy neighbors.’”
Chickens have it in them to look menacing. I hurried on, “So where have you
been seeing neighbors? Through the fence?” She flicked her head towards the
sky, a small gesture, easily understood even by those who are too stupid for
words.
I responded, “Blue neighbors… in the sky? Noisy? Oh! You’re referring to the
helicopters!”
“Very noisy.”
“They are, aren’t they? That’s COVID for you.”
“They’re crows? Bloody hell.”
I read this week that the swear word “bloody” is in decline.
https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/aug/20/bloody-loses-its-place-atop-swearing-lexicon-as-british-use-of-expletives-falls
<https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/aug/20/bloody-loses-its-place-atop-swearing-lexicon-as-british-use-of-expletives-falls>
Possibly I should write to the newspaper to explain that rather than a decline
we may be in more of a swings and roundabouts situation, what with my chicken
having taken up the burden of the word?
I digress. Mimo was clearly bothered by the helicopters, as are we; they mean,
we think, that people are being transferred in extremis to the hospital which
is close by. Oregon’s ICUs, like those elsewhere, are close to capacity.
“Bloody vaccine resisters,” I muttered.
“Crows?”
“No,” I said. “Idiots.”
“They haven’t been around much lately.”
“Idiots?”
“Crows.”
When I reflected, I decided she was right. We seem to be in a crow vacation
period. Probably all off on the French Riviera, with side-excursions to look
at Le Corbusier’s buildings.
(Le Corbusier means “the crow-like one.”)
S. invited us over for a curry he was cooking. Fabulous. As was the company.
Altogether a good evening, spent outdoors on the deck. While we tried another
guest’s popadoms, Simon and I mused on what would happen if we got our chickens
together. He has one remaining, a barred rock named Shakespeare.
“We could have a hen fight!” was my offering. “Sell tickets. Make a fortune
with the betting.” We riffed on how this would go. After dinner C., who is
married to S., made a slightly different suggestion, “We should have your
chicken over for a play date.” The absurd notions some people come up with!
Different subject: in the movie, “The Return of Martin Guerre,” when
all concerned are banging on about what facial features define an identity and
did Martin have a chipped tooth, the thought should occur that Martin was from
a Basque family and so should have a few words of that language. I may have
yelled this at the screen. Who listened?
Bloomin’ no one.
Same with the new movie “Misha and the Wolf,” which we saw on
television. People in the movie are going, “what was her birth name?” “If
only we could find a record of where she went to school.” If only Hercule
Poirot were around to help. (Aside: did you know that poireau—slightly
different spelling—is French for leek or a simpleton. “Ah, Simpleton… Been
using the little grey cells have we?”) In this new movie Misha’s claim is that
during the Second World War, as a young Jewish girl, she walked east out of
Brussels and encountered… wolves. Fact: the nearest wolves would have been in…
Poland. Where in Belgium were there wolves? Precisely nowhere…last one was
killed in the nineteenth century. “I saw no trace of lying,” says the radio
host who interviews Misha. Neither, my dear, did you make much attempt to look
things up.
I explained all this to my wife. Who was fascinated.
More bloomin’ blue helicopters, and clouds. E's wedding is now three
weeks away. It will be in a field. Hey, maybe we should take Mimo and
Shakespeare for after-dinner entertainment? Might be better than my speech,
which is currently non-existant, and my dancing, which will please no one.
Gonna go walk Hamish, and then start Mimo on a training diet. I’ve got
popadoms.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
