Refusing to put the light on because I didn’t want to be alert enough not to be able to resume the glorious slumber I had been enjoying before, I stumbled to the bathroom to well, expel the demon was causing the stomach cramps that had awoken me. Muttering to myself about the wee hours of a Wednesday morning being a crap time for a bowel movement. I heard a kind of scratchy sound, which I attributed to my medication not being completely absorbed into my system.
Still in the half-asleep haze, I reached for the loo paper only for it not to be where it normally is. Feeling around in the dark, my hand eventually found it, but it was horizontal as opposed to upright as I normally leave it when it’s off the holder. Yes, I’m anal like that. I reached for the cloudy softness of three-ply, but instead was met by something scuttling over my hand. I literally leapt of the crapper, fell over my shoes and flipped on the light switch.
There, soiling my previous Baby Soft, was a King-Kong sized bug, waving its creepy feelers at me as if trying to say watcha gonna do, huh? Huh? It was at this moment that I thanked the fart-gods that my belly had only been filled with a few rather large windy hurricanes and that I didn’t have to wipe. I leapt up, forgetting in the momentary terror to pull up my panties. Crash. Into the shower door. Still the evil fiend laughed at me. I leopard crawled into my bedroom, where there is always a trusty bottle of Raid because The Cave is close to a river and the mosquitoes that breed there are next level bastards. The can was emptier than most South African politicians’ brains. I cried. Then I went and slept in the spare room.
That’s now my Wednesday started: A Mexican stand-off with an intrusive Godzilla-sized Brown Banded Cockroach (who must have trespassed via my open window) in the wee hours of the morning.
I stopped in at the local store on my way into work this morning to buy another bottle of Raid…and fresh toilet rolls. I will dispose of the defiled left over one by chucking it in the bin with a pair of braai tongs.
The weirdness continued…
Now, I only ever listen to the radio in the car or when it’s on at someone’s house. I love music, but I do prefer it uninterrupted, even more so by the local news which is all about corruption, idiocies, murder and general mayhem.
This morning, on my way to work, the breakfast show had what they called #WaybackWednesday. They play an intro of a song and listeners send messages of the memories they have of said song from way back when. This morning’s song was The Look by Roxette. You’re already singing the chorus, aren’t you? Don’t lie! I can hear you 😀
The memory I have of that song is of a girl I was in elementary school with. Her name is Robyn. She was a cool kid and Roxette was her jam. She’d always ask Uncle Charlie, the bus driver if he would play her cassette (yes, we’re that old) in the radio on the way to school. Then we’d all sing at the top of our lungs like wannabe pop-stars.
When the song came on, I turned up the volume to the highest decibel level my now-forty-something ears would allow and belted out the lyrics. I was on fire! Walking like a man…nananananananana…she’s got the look. And yes, because while my uniform doesn’t scream Dressed for Success I did get the look – quite a few in fact that said, are you on something, Chick? Why is it, that when you’re an awkward teenager singing into your hairbrush, you’re kiff, but when you’re a fully-grown Fabulously-Forty-Something-Femme rocking it on behind your steering wheel, people think you’ve lost the plot?
But wait, there’s even more oddness on this Wednesday. Seriously. I felt at one stage that I may have been in a parallel universe, where weirdness was mandatory for survival.
As much as I love Eliza, she is not the first person I would ever call in an emergency because she never has her phone with her. If I need to speak to her, it’s just easier to phone Nathan. So, when my phone rang and I saw it was her caller ID, I did a double-take.
I answered, somewhat confused. The conversation went like this:
“Hey Femme, can you talk quickly?”
“I have a bird emergency.”
To give some background before continuing the story, a few years back a dove flew into the house while Eliza and little Nathaniel were both home alone. Eliza is not fond of winged birds, so when I got there, I was summoned to perform a rescue of some type. I quickly caught the bird in a towel and once it had calmed down a bit, I tossed it out the window and it flew off into what I hope was the wild blue yonder.
Nathaniel hailed me a hero(ine) that day, and hey, if you not a four-year-old’s heroine at some stage in your life, then you haven’t lived.
“Okay, where is the bird?”
“In the bathroom. Shame, he’s scared.”
“Grab a towel and toss it over him and scoop him up. Once he’s calmed down you can let him go.”
“He ran into the sliding door. I tried to shoo him out and he got a fright. I think he’s going to die.”
“What kind of bird are we talking about here?” Because I was thinking ‘dove’.
“A francolin. He came into the house and I don’t want them inside. They shit everywhere.” So my day starts with shit of sorts and before midday I’m dealing with it again… “What’s worse is his little friend is on the other side of the door calling out for him.”
“Catch him and take him to the vet, or my cousin, Lara. They will know what to do.”
A few minutes later I received a photo of the francolin, in a crate, with more than a birdy-concussion. I told her to get it to the vet, but sadly it didn’t make it. I told her to bury it before Nathaniel and Lincoln get home, but she said the vet kept the little feathered guy to give him a send-off over the rainbow bridge with the other beings to their respective animal afterlives. She went on to tell me, quite remorsefully, I might add, that she killed a bird today.
It was at that moment that I had a bout of foot-in-mouth-disease.
“I wonder if they mate for life. I’m going to Google quickly.” This thought crossed my mind because of a friend that blogged about a hadeda that died in her garden and how its mate mourned for it. The info I found said that they’re not particularly loyal to one mate, so I gave a sigh of relief.
Eliza’s research yielded the opposite.
“They are monogamous, so I’ve not only ruined one bird’s life today, but two.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I know it’s tragic, but I am a little touched in the head.
Let’s hope next Wednesday is a little less bizarre.
On a final note, is it too soon to coin the phrase two birds, one door. 😀 😀