The Golden Cock
Roosters have a lot to answer for. Most notably for their sheer lack of ability in telling the time. With a farm to call home, I always thought I was pretty accustomed to the tell-tale noises of agricultural life like airbrakes of an overloaded semi-trailer, the echo of the fuel drums warping in the heat, the blasphemous cursing from the shed knowing that Dad has jammed his finger under the tailgate, again, crunching of gravel as a ute crawls up the driveway, fire crackling through post-summer stubble and roosters crowing as the sunlight breaks the dawn across the yard.
No airbrake, no blaspheme, no wildfire could prepare me for the wrath that these roosters bring down upon me at all hours of the morning. If it’s not them extending their scrawny, flea-ridden, malnourished neck to crow at any given speck of light (mobile phone screens included) it is them trying to make me scrambled eggs for breakfast with any (and sometimes all) hen(s) right underneath my bedroom window.
After waking for the nth time in one nights sleep, I deliriously ponder the potential marketability of watches or alarm clocks or muzzles for roosters. The latter generally wins over. Although I have to admit, if energy levels were not so impeded, stuffed chicken breast would be the ultimate solution.
In fact, this pre-dawn pondering has now extended into daylight hours and while wandering the aisles of the local hyper-market (yes, not super- but hyper-!) marvelling at all the horrid, imported, quasi-foodstuffs, I have stumbled upon a brand of sauces that will most definitely well-accompany my evil recipe. ‘The Golden Cock.’
Lesson 14: For all the Leyendekkers’ in the house – Rooster Rating is so 2009. Rooster Roasting is now the recognised method of measurement and annihilation.
No airbrake, no blaspheme, no wildfire could prepare me for the wrath that these roosters bring down upon me at all hours of the morning. If it’s not them extending their scrawny, flea-ridden, malnourished neck to crow at any given speck of light (mobile phone screens included) it is them trying to make me scrambled eggs for breakfast with any (and sometimes all) hen(s) right underneath my bedroom window.
After waking for the nth time in one nights sleep, I deliriously ponder the potential marketability of watches or alarm clocks or muzzles for roosters. The latter generally wins over. Although I have to admit, if energy levels were not so impeded, stuffed chicken breast would be the ultimate solution.
In fact, this pre-dawn pondering has now extended into daylight hours and while wandering the aisles of the local hyper-market (yes, not super- but hyper-!) marvelling at all the horrid, imported, quasi-foodstuffs, I have stumbled upon a brand of sauces that will most definitely well-accompany my evil recipe. ‘The Golden Cock.’
Lesson 14: For all the Leyendekkers’ in the house – Rooster Rating is so 2009. Rooster Roasting is now the recognised method of measurement and annihilation.
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