Jungle isolation, Day 193.
I went out earlier to buy some water from the shop to find next door’s rooster cock-a-doodle-doing in my front yard. Somehow, he (and this time, unlike last night’s spider situation, I can be sure of gender as he was crowing like an Old Etonian) had fallen off their tin roof and into my space.
Spying me outside, the half-blind scabby dog I sometimes feed came rushing from over the road, tail wagging furiously and clearly hopeful for a repeat of last night’s tin of pilchards in tomato sauce.
Again, I can be reasonably sure that the dog is a bitch and by this I don’t mean she has a vicious or vindictive character. She’s actually quite pleasant except for the scabs and mange and lice and fleas.
This ‘chicken and dog’ situation was quite a quandary. I wanted to open the gate and shoo the rooster outside but at the same time, I knew if I did so the dog would be in like a shot.
It was like that logic puzzle with the wolf and the sheep and the boat and the river.
Were I Aesop, or George Orwell even, I could write some kind of fable about this, relating it to the human condition. If I were a technocratic elitist such as Mr Lee, I would happily watch them both starve and die, all the while chuckling and rubbing myself in a satisfying manner.
I am not Aesop, George Orwell or a technocratic elitist.
I’m Ron Gridcharts.
Despite my complete lack of local language ability, I went to my neighbours’ and managed to convey the situation via a combination of pointing at my house and doing my very best chicken impression (and I do have a degree in Drama so it was pretty impressive), using the techniques of strutting, scratching and flapping my bent arms so they somehow resembled the vestigial wings of a cockerel.
At first they must have thought it was some kind of traditional dance from England because the family and a few passers-by stopped to watch my farm fowl impression. At the end, a few clapped. The rest were filming it with their phones.
Finally, the father of the household understood the situation and accompanied me- not in doing a chicken dance- but just to my house where he shooed away the dog and grabbed the wayward bird, laughing.
Even though my avian impression was necessary, it has given me a thirst once more to tread the boards.
I may never play The Dane but I’d be quite good in panto (Mother Goose wouldn’t be too much of a stretch). Or a TED Talks. This could be my amusing anecdote bit.