my life as a artist
i am the wind beneath her wings
Friday 29th May 2009 10:56 PM
One of the hens has fallen in love with me, and while it's very flattering it's also rather awkward, mainly because I haven't fallen in love with her. She'd been hanging around the bird table and when I was putting food out I'd sometimes spill seed in my excitement, and I think she's mistaken this for some sort of romantic overture.
She waits for me to come home, and when I'm in the garden re-potting plants or digging, she pecks at my fingers and toes, and sometimes she invites herself into the caravan, and before I can shoo her out, she shits on the rug.
She's an attractive redhead, about eighteen inches tall with piercing mad eyes, and a couple of sore-looking bald patches on her wings, probably caused by a mild case of depluming scabies. However, the mystic homeopath and heavy metal drummer, Thorwald Defleppardson, says that feather-loss can be the result of emotional disappointment, so it's possible that the hen is on the rebound from a failed relationship and I'm just the object of her lovelorn projections.
It's been difficult getting her to understand that her feelings of unconditional love towards me aren't grounded in any sort of practical reality, and more to the point, that they're not reciprocated in any way. Jungian analysis, however, cuts little dash with poultry, and in the end I've had to resort to a lot of vigorous shooing. I've always tried to maintain an appropriately loving relationship with all animals, both domestic and wild, and I find this act of vigorous shooing quite distressing, and with the unpleasant rug incident, it's turned out to be quite a messy business.
Talking of sordid affairs filled with painful squawkings and disappointment, my next gig is at the City Screen basement bar on Friday June 5th as part of a Dylan tribute night, an annual event in honour of the bard's birthday. Blonde on Bob, featuring the Travelling Libraries very own Ry Veeter, will do the songs and I'll wheel out my annually adapted twenty-minute Bob Dylan comedy set.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end of the blog? I haven't got the Memphis blues again, but I do appear to be stuck inside a mobile-home.
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Posted by online payday loans , on Friday 2nd July 2010, 7:41 AM
Its a pity you are a vegetarian otherwise you could wring her neck and eat her, problem solved No more than she deserves really, silly clucking bird.
Posted by Harold , on Tuesday 9th June 2009, 3:49 PM
Spilling your seed in excitement in the very first paragraph sounds like premature joculation to me. I recommend camomile tea to steady your nerves.
Posted by John (aka Jonault aka Jono) , on Saturday 30th May 2009, 3:09 PM
And is your pill box really made of leopard skin.
Posted by Hettie , on Friday 29th May 2009, 11:26 PM
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