30 March 2013
Picture me, getting ready to go out, receiving a call that my red chicken may be out on the road. Me, racing outside, resplendent in little, tight, short, red dress, complete with pasty white legs and big paddock boots, and calling Radish to no effect. Me running out to the street and pacing up and down the nature strip, calling out in my best high-pitched-chicken-calling voice (whilst brandishing a cup of chicken-attracting-oats) “Radish, here chick chick chick! Come on chicken!” (….etc). Neighbours looking on bemused at the antics of the Mad Chicken Woman. Me, retreating, unsuccessful in my chicken-locating-quest, back to Joyfallee, only to find Radish happily scratching around in the grass and oblivious to my distress. Me, relieved, returning to make myself presentable to go out, complete with unique excuse for being late.
Radish-the-Resident-Chicken by Sandy Gaffney