Half a dozen croaky crows disturbed the Sunday morning quiet following the cold Belgrave Lantern Festival, a wonderful night-time solstice celebration. `Nadia’ followed up with more rooster-like behaviour: calling the hens with that distinctive `food is here’ call, which worked, albeit rather desultorily.
The Who’s song chimes `I’m a boy, I’m a boy, but my Mum won’t admit it...’ and hums as we digest the inconvenient news and look with fresh eyes at our chesty, glossy bird with the handsome curved tail (but small comb).
(It reminds me of a friend who thought, for several months, that his son had a cold until his newly broken voice was pointed out; you can be too close to see the overall picture.)
`Chickie’ is still `his’ best name – usefully unisex as we adjust – but doesn’t reflect his civilised nature: crowing at 7.30 is not too early; it’s fine! Last night, to my sorrow, I watched as our first female Prime Minister was deposed for the Labor cause.
As I see it, the glass ceiling just got double glazing.
Clever Chickie sniffed the political winds and decided to crow again this morning – although at 8, still not at dawn, tempering the rashness. It feels, momentarily, ironic until I reflect that Chickie is lowest in the pecking order still, crowing and male chromosomes notwithstanding. That is what is – faintly - ironic.