Meanwhile, Panda the mother rabbit has gone all Mission Impossible, burrowing under her enclosure and freeing her three furry offspring, all the size of your palm and not exactly equipped to deal with the big bad world. If you ask me she was sick of her rabbity spawn demolishing the house, eating all the food and borrowing the car without asking, and has politely pushed them out and made them get a real job.  Awoken early in the morning to Lucys anguished, dramatic cries of the catastrophe Dad was set the task of helping to gather the bunny sproglets from around the garden, a sort of reverse Easter egg hunt. According to Luce Dad, a 6″3, 51 year old man, was on all fours, cautiously creeping up to a hunched furball, ears flicking furtively. Just as Dad reached the end of his stalk and pounced the wittle wabbit shot forward, leaving Dad with dirty elbows and an even dirtier mood. Lucy, on hearing him darkly mutter “fucking dog of a thing” shot back “Dad! it’s not a dog, it’s a rabbit”. So much for the extended vernacular of Lucy Herbert. Normalcy has been restored with the rabbits rounded up and rehabilitated, and word spread about the little darlings needing new homes. Anyone need a rabbit?

Lucy and her bunny protege

Trying to keep up with the other very eggsperienced workers I would often accidentally drop an egg, which prompted a tsunami of chickens converging on the golden yolk, yelling and pushing like bitches in David Jones on the Boxing Day sales. Watching the kerfuffle I realised why it was the chickens that were kept in the shed preyed on by humans and not the other way around; not working out how to break open your own eggs, filled with your own chicken made deliciousness, would indicate you’re not climbing the evolution scale anytime soon.

Every time you pause and stoop to collect the eggs from the nesting boxes that stretched further than the natural eye can see, the milling chickens would idly peck your legs and arms, stealing anything they could from your flesh. The mafia really should turn to chickens if the world runs out of pigs; if I were to lie down and give up the chickens would give Hitchcock a run for his money, ensuing a new order of feathery fiendishness. Their jerking quick movements and unblinking eyes scared the shiz out of me. When thinking of our three fat little bushy hens that cluck around the garden at home, I felt like I was in some sort of poultry third world country. Oh the fowlness!

The other woman working there all seemed to have a common denominator, many of them having had kids young, all chain smokers, all a little rough around the edges. I take my chicken feathered cap off to them. This is what they do for a living, five days a week, they don’t chuck it in two days in because they can’t. What people do to make their coin and get by is astounding. But for me, it just wasn’t my basket of eggs. Onto the next eggsperience!

The three ugly sisters

I am sitting here, writing this, wearing a cowboy hat. No really I am, I couldn’t be bothered to take it off. And I kinda like it; the John Wayne of the blogosphere, but with better nails and a straighter gait.

Having moved back home after finishing my degree, life has slowed down again. The recent rains have transformed the view outside my window, a tangle of lush greenness that defies the Australian dustbowl stereotype; postcard perfect. Home has been transformed into a halfway house for any animal that would like to be fed and have money spent on it for no apparent reason. Lucy, or as I shall call her from now on, Young McDonald, or YMC for an unnecessary and quickly forgettable nickname (which is fast turning into an itch to throw my arms in the air and dance to the Village People) has become a collector of living creatures. We have two adult rabbits, Remy and Panda, and their unfortunate but oddly cute newly borne offspring (which have been called miniature baby hippos, of which they bear a striking resemblance). There are also two budgies and two doves, which also tend to procreate, a jackrussel named Nico (total dude, also an expecting father), a kabillion horses and three fat ducks and their neighbours, Mama duck, Papa duck and their three yellow babies. In my opinion it’s all very happy families till someone gets eaten and some Fantastic Mr. Fox breaks up poultry suburbia. But until then I assume they live by the motto to lay eggs while the sun shines. The chooks do make me laugh. Fat and speckled, they are the perfect staple of any yuppie farmers life.  Letting them out in the morning from their finely established chook house behind the stables, they are all lined up waiting to get out and seize the day by it’s underfeathers. On opening the door the chooks, in all their prehistoric oddity, are the first to poke their heads out the door and fluff about into the sunshine. Then comes Mama duck, slightly hostile but eager to stretch her wings, followed by one, two, three little yellow plops as the babies gather their courage and jump down from the step. Usually followed with a squawk when the enormous and somewhat errant Papa duck, Theodore, lumbers out of the house and lands squarely on whoever was unfortunate to be the baby at the back. Every day. You think someone would figure it out. But no, the pot bellied Theodore stands there, looking blearily about in the morning sunshine whilst a baby waves it’s stubs for wings and cheeps admonishingly. A most eccentric character, Theodore likes to think he’s tough, flapping his wings and putting on an Elvis quiff, glaring at you aggressively… as soon as your back is turned and your walking away. You can see him thinking Yeah that’s right. Walk away. Uhuh, keep breathing you, you, you human. Oh yeah. This coming from a duck that gets stuck trying to swim in a bucket half his size.

If down at the stables and busting for a pee one simply dashes to a stable or behind a bush to conduct ones business. However my sister can’t pee in front of the chooks; she thinks they’re watching her, planning some terrible chooky revenge whilst she is vulnerable. And I know exactly what she means. If Nico the jackrussel should walk in on me on the loo I get terrible stage fright; I just don’t know what he’s thinking underneath those shaggy brows, his doggy nose wrinkled in disgust. So primitive he’s probably thinking. And he’s probably right.

the lovely lucy

My darling little sister is coming to stay next week, she’s flying down from Tamworth in a big jet plane all by herself. It is her 12th birthday and it amazes me every-time I see her how divine she is, and how she has changed. It makes me cry a little bit inside when I see that her hands aren’t little girl hands anymore; they’ve lost their pudginess and have become more formed – I sound quite mad but it is something I notice. But she’s incredibly tall, a statuesque and athletic young girl who will be so beautiful, and brings with it a forceful personality that won’t be changed for all the tea in china, and a charisma that charms the pants of people, if she’s in a nice mood.

It will be her birthday week, and my sister and I are thinking of taking her to Supre for a spend up sesh on shitty clothes that will match her alarming growth speed. A few little dresses, a shirt or two, fabulous. But on hearing of the impending shopping trip, she has asked for some dreaded ‘jeggings’. Now I am severely, morally, politically and ethically against jeggings. If you have been living under a fashion faux pas rock and haven’t heard of jeggings, they are some sort of undesired love child between the ubiquitous jean and the mother legging, a stretchy leg wrapping slyly pretending to be denim. Now for ladies who rock their jeans tight, jeggings would seem the answer to the inevitable saggy stovepipe bum. Stretchy! Comfortable! Pro-bicycle riding/soccer ball chasing/gym class lunging comfort, all under the disguise of a delightful snug trouser pant! But they’re not. They’re ugly pretend jeans that encourage muffin tops and exaggerate every womanly curve; unfortunately favoured by slightly chunky bogans who affably pair them with a nice ugh boot and too-short-singlet top. Yes, I know. I am a jegging snob. But after explaining this to my delightful tween sibling, she rolled her eyes and said “whatever they’re cool”. And this brought me up short. As the eldest of my sister ranks, I had the sometimes advantaged but mostly disadvantaged position of coming first, leading the way in a braille like fashion through the world of ‘cool’. I was in fact a sneakers and leggings kind of girl, who thought a purple bumbag was both practical and an enviable colour, preferred her shirts as turtlenecks and wore what her mum thought was ‘nice’. (I ended up alright, in case you were wondering, and can in fact dress myself without people running from me, screaming of burnt retinas.) Who was I to tell my young fledgling fashionesta what was cool for an 11 yr old? Was I 11? No. So, at 22, I am sucking it up and brushing my prejudices aside, making way for the next generation to clear their own path in this jungle life.

                                                     I am buying jeggings.

His mother did not particularly like children but enjoyed the feeling of being wanted in the process of making them, welcoming men into her small and thin walled house to use and leave her. Campbell would crouch beside her as she cried on the floor, mascara mingling with mucus on yellowing bruises. Dirty hands, tiny and wrinkled like an old man’s, Campbell would pat his mother’s back until she screamed for him to leave.

Through the yard whose crunchy grass reached for his hips, along the narrow dirt road littered in leaves thin as tissues soggy from last nights rain he would run, slowing to kick small pebbles, hands deep in his pockets. Standing on the outskirts of the dirt park he watched his brothers and their friends throw balls and each other on the ground, yelling as boys often do. They were large and mean, stealing pinches to leave marks on Campbell’s freckled arms, the brothers sharing nothing but half a DNA and names that meant something and someone else.

Campbell and his best friend Aila would play for hours along side the deep river that ran dark through the dusty landscape. The coolness of the green water was a relief to their hot toes; the two little boys rolling up their trousers to kick through the very edge. Neither swam very well and the barely moving depths of the broad expanse frightened and fascinated them terribly. The riverbank was littered with stones that hurt when you walked along them barefoot, all sizes and all bleached chalky grey by the heat. It was discovered in excitement one lazy afternoon, that when submerged in water the stones came to life, reds and blacks and browns scribbled in amber, the grey washed clean away. All had known the caress of the river at some time and were flattened over the years, the smoothness delighting the grimy touch of the small friends. It became a competition to find the prettiest pebble, running across the bruising banks, their shorts weighed down to their knees with prospectives. Hoarding the finds in secret places.

The light had seemed more vicious and bright on those sweating afternoons, just Campbell and Aila. As the day was sucked behind the horizon the boys tossed pieces of bark into the water and watched the ripples meet and merge with each other, the bark carried down-stream.

‘Where do you ‘reckon it ends?’ Aila squinted at the curved bank which hid the rivers flow. Campbell shrugged, dipping a finger in the water that had bled molten gold by the tails of the gasping light.

‘All water leads to the sea don’t it? ‘Spose that’s where it goes, all the rivers and water joined up to make a giant one. Reckon whales eat bark?’

Aila shrugged, mimicking his friend. He had seen the sea once, unlike Campbell, and had reported to his friend its frightening ability to dump on your head. But Campbell imagined it to be a beautiful river, even bigger then the one before them, full of mermaids and things.

Aila had moved that year to a distant city, leaving his friend to search through the stones all alone.

Campbell took to carrying small flat pebbles wherever he went, deliciously smooth and flecked in greys and blacks which grew warm in his palms, hot under his tongue.

The invitation took Campbell by surprise one Thursday, many years later. Aila needed a flat mate in the distant city. Perhaps Campbell would like to join him, even for just a little while?

Closing the ripped screen door the knobbly young man walked on the hushing leaves that stole his footsteps fluidly. The prospect of traveling to meet his friend, unknown for so long, was a venture he never would have taken had he not realised whilst sitting on the sagging verandah two days before, his life sucked.

The city frightened and fascinated him. Its opulence, the smells and hot noises drowning his thoughts. Brimming of everything he would walk through crowds of turned down ears, crying landscapes framed in steel, soft breezes charged in petrol. His friend hesitated when he saw Campbell. They jerked like awkward mannequins, unsure whether to embrace, eventually resorting to thumping one another on the back man-style. The atmosphere relaxed however as reminiscing oiled their tongues and it felt exceptional to talk to someone. Campbell minced beside his friend, crow feather hair dripping black and blue shined, his perpetually warped lips slightly agape at the smells and sounds that assaulted him.

A grossly extended woman wearing bracelets of fat served them greasy chips. Sitting in the weak sunshine their conversation petered off, slim warmth coaxing sleep on the bitter grass. Aila started to tell him of this girl he had met. He had finally trapped her and convinced her to join him for a drink, five months ago, he said proudly. Bit of a miracle. He had loved her for a while, maybe even a year, before he had gained the courage to ask her out.

Campbell listened with his eyes shut. He had been kissed when he was fourteen by plump Janice Warner in the cupboard at school one rainy day. It had been wet and unpleasant and reminded him of cold dead fish, and that had been the extent of his romantic experiences. Brushing his trousers of the sour grass Campbell got to his feet before Aila could ask him what he knew, of sinking in love.

In the small grungy kitchen that bounced with sounds of next doors water pipes Campbell sat timidly. Aila had bustled off to work in a musty and seldom-visited bookshop, brown hair brushed and neatly composed. After two hours of looking at the stained table top Campbell rose to venture out fearfully. Hands deep in his pockets he strained against the strong arm of some wind blown in from strange continents, wishing weakly for words to distract him. Aimlessly he crossed streets following cart-wheeling chip packets, bumping shoulders with a gigantic pulsing mass that didn’t meet his eyes. When hissing rain started to tug at his ears he ducked under a cover of some dingy take-away, the front door guarded by two listless plants, their bases held steady with smooth pebbles. Picking one up, he observed the splatters of white tinges, speckled like a sneeze. Turning to watch the beating rain he pocketed the small stone.

‘What are you doing?’

Startled he turned, his lopsided mouth twisted uncertainly.

‘Excuse me?’ He directed his faltering question to a short figure dressed in black.

‘What are you doing? Did you just take a pebble?’

The voice was deep and rippled like an underground lake as ducks took flight. Campbell flushed deeply, stumbling over his heavy tongue.

‘I, well you see, I……I’m sorry.’ He removed the stone quickly and with a slight regret he replaced its smoothness, moving to walk into the falling silver.

‘Why’d you take it?’ The girl walked out of the corner, the rain giving flickering shadows to her tilted face. She glanced at the stones.

‘Funny isn’t it, the white flecks. Colour of grasshopper’s blood. Did you know that? Grasshopper’s blood. It’s white.’ She looked at him as he nodded, unsure what to do with this information. She had blue eyes, the palest blue. Chlorine eyes. A silence gathered in the chill given by that wind and she motioned inside the cafe that smelt of burnt meat.

‘I’m a waitress. Definitely overworked and underpaid.’ She had a slight lisp on every S.

She noted his slightly startled look, and shook her head.

‘I’m sorry.’ She shivered and drew her arms around her soft frame that seemed blurred around the edges.

‘Would, would you like to get something to eat?’ Campbell’s own voice shocked him, sounding rusted. He had thought it hiding.

She looked at him slightly frowning, then shrugged.

‘Ok.’

Seated across from each other they ate sandwiches that gleefully dumped their fillings on the floor, their laps. She gestured towards the cup he held in his left hand.

‘Lefty?’

Campbell nodded.

‘You’ll live about nine years less then me. It’s true! I’m right-handed yeah.’ She took his wrinkled hand, and shook it. Her fingers were long and blunt, her wrist thin.

‘Klotho.’

‘Campbell.’

She traced the furrowed lines that ran deep in his hand, as if water or tears flowed down them often. Ah.

‘You’ll live to a ripe age and feel guilt for love. See?’ She stabbed at two lines that crossed and mangled into one another. ‘You’ll also meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger.’ She grinned at him and he smiled back crookedly, feeling the warmth of her tracing. They talked of rivers and favorite foods, names and nightmares and dragonflies.

‘Did you know dreamt is the only English word that ends in mt?’

He shook his head at her boundless trivia.

In the tiring light she suddenly exclaimed at her wristwatch, jumping to her feet.

‘Tomorrow?’

Campbell nodded and watched her small figure weave through rush hour.

*    *    *    *

Hands like pale spiders crept over his pointed shoulder blades and down the rough slope of his back. Outside, wind sprinted at the window but right now they only heard the others breath warm on collarbones, hushed over finger prints. Between each salty rib the balmy breeze trailed. His mind raced as if it were a cloud bundled along ferociously by a gale. He paused before planting each nervous kiss as if unsure whether they were his to give, his to place on her, tenderly.

*    *    *    *

Weeks tripped by and Campbell felt smoothed. Aila’s girlfriend and he were never introduced, she continually cancelling at the last minute citing work, much to Aila’s disappointment. Campbell felt only relief and would slip away quietly to Klotho’s steady flat to which she returned to late, or sometimes early, from various jobs.

Aila came bubbling into the room interrupting Campbell’s silence. Urging him to put on his coat he bounced in impatience. They were off to meet his girlfriend! She was working, but they would surprise her. It’ll be great! Campbell dragged him-self off the couch in heavy treads. Great.

Up a claustrophobic staircase, dark and swinging, they trod. Aila bumbling. The smell of paint and turpentine tickled their noses and sat bitter on the roof of the mouth, announcing itself at every swallow. Aila patted his superbly arranged hair in anticipation.

Opening a scratchy wooden door revealed people sitting before white sheaths sketching, hunched. Every now and then someone would flick a page over the stand, like a rustling white dove flung in the air. After watching for a while Campbell looked to where their attention ran cradled.

Sky eyes.

Sitting in the middle her dark hair running down her arms Klotho sat, arranged. The mole on her thigh lay stark, quickly eyes darting. They rested on Aila’s with startled recognition, then Campbell’s with trapped horror.

Out of the whole city, every soul who despaired and cried and breathed and smiled crookedly the two of them watched each other in mingled panic.

Campbell felt he was made of glass, or bubbles. A bauble that had been cut free and now would float out the window. Aila looked at the two of them in confusion.

‘Do, do you know…?’

No, Campbell thought. I don’t know her.

Only her wrapped in sheets, smelling of scratchy detergent and something smooth. Only that hair in his eyes. Only that she would live nine years longer then he.

Seawater eyes.

Turning, he tumbled down the stairs and walked in the optimistic sun. Salt ran into the creases of his slanted mouth, removed with a flick of the tongue. Sitting at the train stations amongst the rushings he saw with itchy eyes streams of people vomited from snaking trains. His smashed appearance made him look quite mad and probably homeless; it earned him a dollar from a passerby. Black snow, black snow falling in his head.

Clean lines that faded into the carpet where he walked, he hardly left a footprint, just pieces of his heart that fell from his weeping chest.