As I approach my 30th birthday I have developed a keen interest in gardening and animal husbandry. To be fair the husbandry bit was thrust upon me when my mother become was given some chickens and so I in turn became the curator of 4 scrawny chicks. I wasn't overly keen on chickens (I ran screaming from them the first day I was ordered to catch one). The fear is based on their beady chicken eyes and their large talons. But after a bit of a slow start I've grown quite fond of my nkukus. My sister and I have finally named the brood after an anonymous 3 weeks. From left to right we have Leghorn (runt), Fat Elvis (clearly reincarnated fried-peanut butter sandwich eating Elvis), Queenie (aristocratic and haughty) and Near-Death (scrawny, bald and approaching the End).
The Universe has obviously decided that the time is right for me to nuture something and in my inability to sprog has sent me chickens. Unfortunately it has simultaneously foisted upon me the urge to grow a herb garden. My brood likes nothing more than to use their prodigiously long talons to scratch up my newly planted chilli and basil plants. Thus time spent previously nurturing hangovers is now spent feeding chickens and erecting all manner of fences to keep said fowls away from me 'erbs.
I must say that the Universal Yin or Yang whatzit has good timing for my animal husbandry/gardening skills are developing at a time when I am officially growing too old for "what I call nightclubs". The most recent ill-fated jol, found a group of my not-since-schooldays friends venturing into 'Crowded House' on 'Old Skool is Kool' night. We foolishly believed that we could cut some rug (that's dance, to the young people) and leap aboard the cane-train like we did in our youth.
Unfortunately the Golden Oldies played were circa 2010, with a token mash up of Toto blessing the rains down in Africa, Creedence looking out my backdoor and John Travolta going automatic-systematic Greeced lightning. Our elderly posse appeared to be only people not currently at school and apparently wearing their actual school uniforms (or girlfriend's uniforms?) in a cutesy Britney Spears (before she went crazy and cue-ball bald) manner. We were all in agreement that shooters where verboten for the evening as none of us can handle the horrific after affects of jagerbombs any longer. We even had to disembark from the cane train, after agreeing that cane spirit and cream soda (aka green mambas) had a rather laxative effect on our elderly digestive tracts and beer left us bloated and worrying about empty calories. Then of course we crossed into that middle-aged territory of not being able to hear each other over the pre-pubescent whinge of Justin Bieber. When we did manage a snippet of conversation it was generally about the copious amounts of young flesh on display and a general agreement that parenting standards where slipping if mothers were allowing their daughters out dressed like ladies of the night. Eventually we conceded defeat after my dear friend Klong thought her loosened bowels could not withstand queuing for the bogs with underage girls while they discussed who to invite to the next school disco.
I felt this was an appropriate time in my life to make peace with the truth that "The Past is a foreign country: they do things differently there" (thank you Leslie Poles Hartley for that pearl of wisdom, I will add that to other parental gems such as "if you pull the tiger's tail you had better hold on for the ride").
While my nights of partying like it was 1999 appear to be on the wain, my present almost-30-something state is a peculiar place. Whilst all around me Facebook declares non-stop marriage and sproggery I am in a strange netherworld of gardening and a somewhat eccentric husband, as is illustrated by this little tale: I returned home late one evening after visiting my folks to find our house in total darkness. Having left the Husband at home, I suspected that we a) had a power cut or b) something more sinister as this is the country in which Olympic heroes allegedly murder their girlfriends. On high alert I hustled officiously up the drive, when from out of the darkness stepped the luminescent spectacle of my naked husband all a glint in the moonlight. Somewhat taken aback by his birthday attire it took me awhile to register the packet of sunflower seeds in one hand and beer in the other.
Husband: Oh, good you're back.
Me: [Bemused] Yes I am. It is very dark, is there a problem with the
lights?
Husband: No.
Me: Then why pray tell are they ALL off?
Husband: Because it's full moon.
Me: Yes, [losing patience] but why are the lights off? [Casting eyes southward] And why? Are. You. Naked?
Husband: I'm planting sunflowers. [Gives me a look implying I am a bit simple] Everybody knows that you do your planting at full moon. DUH!
And in that one sentence the Husband proved that while I may have traded nightclubs for gardening and husbandry life is anything but dull.
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