After racing through all the possible instances human poo could have made it down to my ankle that day, I’ve come to the conclusion that yes, that’s definitely dirt or mud from the chicken coop smeared just above my sock. I’ve told the nurse I’m handing over to this, but she’s looking at me with a mixture of disgust and amusement. Regrettable that I didn’t notice till she pointed it out two hours before I knock off? Probably. But I’m just stoked it’s not human excrement.
Truth is, before departing for his European adventure, housemate Tom left me with 10 baby Plymouth Rock chicks to hand-raise, which, in addition to the big girls, Eduardo and Lebron AND the vege garden, has turned me into a frantic Mother Hubbard of a morning.
I’ve probably been reading too many how-to chicken forums, but so paranoid was I of coming home to heat-stroked/cooked birds, that I’m down in that coop at 5.45am ferreting about before work.
Just to clarify, we’re talking about a small smear here – I don’t roll around in puddles before work.
Here is a series of photographs depicting a couple of wannabe-darwinian nurses holding chickens and fresh tropical produce:
The earth has gone from crispy and cooking to waterlogged, luscious green and dripping. At night our resident Green tree frog – Terrence – and his mates wage a sound war against cyclonic storms, which now smack and saturate us on a daily basis.
Each storm is more exciting than the last. I don’t even mind being woken up three times a week at 2am. Often the thunder overhead is so deafening and violent that the house shudders on its stilts. There is something eerie about seeing the world lit up in silent white light, then having to wait, bracing yourself for the low distant rumble and ear-splitting thunder clap. Never gets old.
In the first week of the rain, I was that idiot that kept whipping out my phone in public places to take photos of gathering clouds and swaying palm trees. I was at a BP the other day filling up the car and trying to take photos of the storm front at the same time. It was midday but the day was dark. There were two old blokes at the pumps on either side of me, both filling up their troopies. They’re both smirking at me, juggling my smartphone and petrol pump.
“First wet season is it, dal?” Clearly.
I pay for my petrol and jump back in the car. Antonin Dvorak is playing on classic FM, gale force winds are blowing the world sideways and I drive home feeling like I’m in an end of the world movie, grinning ear to ear.