Poppalina

Eviction

 

 

And so it came to pass that, after recent verbal assurances that I could stay living in my house as long as I wished, and an enthusiastic go ahead to get chickens and really commit to living here...

I received a notice to vacate. Within 8 weeks.

Never trust a landlord. I really should have that tattooed on my forehead. Backwards, so I can read it clearly when I look in the mirror.

I sat in the no-longer-mine-but-still-beautiful chicken coop with my mental but much-loved brood and cried. For 3 days. Someone should have taken a photo. They could use it to put me away forever.

Then I dried my eyes and hit the streets.

Which precipitated still more crying. Honestly, the things people have the audacity to call homes. How do they fucking sleep at night? I get depressed at the thought of anyone living in these loveless, lightless, smelly little hovels with their pre-war wiring and their spakfilled doorlocks. To consider doing so myself causes me to hyperventilate with terror. And, for the dubious privilege of occupying said miserable deathtrap, you then hand over either your virginity or your first-born child, whichever you're still lucky enough to possess, as security.

 



 

That said, it's all slowly coming together. A house has been found and applied for, though I can't talk about it yet, as it's by no means finalised, and more nervous breakdowns may yet be forthcoming. But the ducks and chickens have been found a home even better than the one they have now, and for that my heartfelt gratitude goes out to my oldest friend in the world. We started school together, and she could whisper animals even then. I never did work out how she does it. It's just a mysterious gift she has. Those are some lucky birds, let me tell you.

The Kid has been a champion. She chose, unlike her mother, to be forward-thinking, excited and optimistic, and did a lot of patting of shoulders and making of tea, lest Mummy lose her vital bodily fluids from all that leaking. Only twice did she ask me to please stop crying and come out from the chicken coop because it was 3 in the morning and I was starting to freak her out.

So. Cross your fingers, your toes, your eyes, if it will help.

And I'll be back in a few days with either good news...

or a suicide note.

 

 

 

Editor's note: application successful. See you on the other side... xo

 

Poultry Wars

 
 

 

Of course, the ducks did eventually discover the joys of deep water bathing. One of them fell in by accident, decided it was kind of cool, and there was no getting them out after that. They'd sleep in the bath if I let them, because they are Riders at the Gates of Dawn....etc, but sadly, they lack the ninja skills to fight off nasty night predators, so it's into the shed at dusk and no arguing, or I get the broom out.

 

 
 
 
 

When I empty and clean the bath, (which I do, ALL THE TIME, and it's bloody hard work), they'll be back in before I've even filled it, merrily splashing along the bottom and messing it all up again until the water's high enough to exit.

And it makes me wonder why I bother, sometimes.

 

 

 
 

 

Meanwhile, the chooks, whom I love to distraction but suspect have been brought into being for the express purpose of driving me insane, know that the one place that I do not want them is on my CUTTING TABLE, where I am trying to SEW, dammit.

The moment nobody is there to whoosh them off (my long ruler is doing a roaring trade in chook eviction), up they boink, berking victorious war cries and dancing their poo dance. I know for a fact that they're hatching plans for World Domination, starting with the kitchen. They hold secret meetings while pretending to sleep in the shed and I can hear them plotting when I go to lock them in. Along the lines of...blah blah blah, ladder.....blah blah blah bomb.....blah blah blah hostages.

Didn't know I could speak chicken, did you?

Today's manoeuvre involved pitching themselves, kamikaze style, at the kitchen window. This is Wanda's speciality, because she fears neither man nor beast (polar bears included), with Red and Cabiria along for moral support (and possible rape and pillage). She would've succeeded, too, had I not been onto her game and already closed the window. I spotted her later, scratching blueprints for a glass-cutter in the dust with her fingernail...

 

 
 

 

So, the coup failed, but I await their next move with apprehension.

If you don't hear from me for awhile, or if I suddenly start blogging neo-fascist slogans in chickenspeak, take it as read that the lunatics did, finally, take over the asylum.

Then call in the CAT team.

Because, some days?

I can feel even the illusion of control just.... slipping away.

Sprung

Real Spring in Melbourne, involving lots of green and blossom and plants on the move, not to mention outrageously beautiful weather, doesn't truly begin until October.

 

 

   

October is when it all happens, and those in Melbourne not wasting their time with football (sorry, but it really does bore me shitless) have been getting hardcore on their vegie gardens.

And duck-wrangling. I should have called these birds Thing 1 and Thing 2, they are so utterly miscreant.

 

Sid and Nancy would have been excellent choices, too.

 

Because, stylistically, ducks lean punkward,

and that's a fact.

A Chook's Gotta Do...

 

Al Martinez is shutting his studio and selling all his stuff (if you're interested). I've only ever spoken to Al via email, but I have dismantled studios, and I feel for him. Anyway, we appear to share an abiding love of chooks and ducks, so this post is dedicated to him, in sympathy.

Sitting with Les Girls for such embarrassingly long periods, it's hard not to notice that they get very antsy around dusk and seriously want to roam the garden. If a chook could say wtf?, it's these guys, pacing the fenceline like caged lions and looking at me meaningfully.

No two ways about it. They want out.

So I locked up the dog and opened the gate.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

So, like, same time tomorrow night, then?

 

Um....yeah...

Absolutely.

   
   
   
  
  

A Small Pot of Water

 

By Shula

 

 

 

 

... 

...
 

What?

 
 
 
 
 

Bok Bok BOK

By Shula

Having finally finished the chook shed myself (a girl could die of old age age waiting for a bloke to turn up and do it), I took Frogdancer's advice and headed up to the Very Excellent Chook Place in Emerald (not an actual name, sadly, but accurate nonetheless).

 

 

I came home with 3 Isa Brown pullets. They're a way off laying yet, but so relaxed and friendly, I don't mind.

They're nice to have around. Friendly, curious, and placid. Completely unbothered by the dog (who has moved from hysteria to catatonia, mostly because no one seemed to be taking any notice, and so much carrying on is exhausting)

And, given that I'm already overrun with Bird Children as it is, I don't see how a few more will make any difference.

There are worse ways to spend Spring than saying 'Bokbokbok' to anything that moves. Can be a bit tricky when you leave home, though.

 

 

At least these guys can sleep in the chook shed, unlike the ducks, who are getting more delinquent by the minute and seem hell bent on trashing my life.

 

 

And speaking of ducks (yay! duck post!), I tried to teach the ducklings to swim today.

I set up a little baby pond, which I thought was completely brilliant, and not too scary for little tackers.

 

Neither of them have spoken to me since.
 

Integration

By Shula

Those of you already suffering from Duck Fatigue might want to skip this blog for the time being.

Duck content is bound to be high.

I am completely, hopelessly, utterly smitten.

And what chance did I have, with both ducklings channelling the soul of Buster Keaton?

I could swear they get a kick out of making me laugh.

So, I'm spending ridiculous amounts of time hanging out with them.

I'm on a mission to get the ducks living in closer proximity to the dog,

Preferably without getting eaten.

Or the ducks eating the dog, for that matter. They have no fear of him...

Whatsoever

(that's the dog's nose, just above the duck's beak - talk about living dangerously...)

In fact, with a whole coop to explore

All the ducks want to do

Is hang out with Angel.

He in turn, is deeply confused.

While, on the one hand, he was bred to be fiercely protective of helpless little tackers,

It cannot be denied....

That these guys smell an awful lot like chicken.
  
 
 

  

Something for Mary

 

By Shula

 

The babies are keeping me busy. Those people who warned me that ducks were messy totally weren't kidding. Despite being very little (though growing at a rate that is nothing short of alarming) and securely contained in a box in my studio (the bathroom was just too cold), they are nevertheless managing to spread the love far and wide. The entire room is being slowly coated in flicked chick feed (ducks like to grab a mouthful of feed, a sip of water and then flick it all as far as they possibly can, because they are inherently delinquent). I may have to sandblast the walls when this is over.

When they're not desecrating my studio space (and let me quickly assure you that my fabrics have been temporarily relocated), they sleep and grow. Asleep, they're cute enough to break your heart. I've been trying to photograph them in repose, but not a chance. Little Edie is as sharp as a tack, and will spring to life at the slightest movement that she doesn't consider normal, which is pretty much everything. Candy Darling would probably sleep through The Apocalypse unless kicked awake, but Edie's happy to oblige.

 

 

Anyway, when I'm not cleaning up after ducklings, I have been knitting again.

Mary and I were both admiring this on the Lion Brand Yarns website:

 

and y'know, one thing led to another and in the end, Mary bought the yarn, and I'm knitting it up. 


 

 

You can download the pattern here, but you'll need to sign up or log in.

The yarn I'm using is from Bendigo Woollen Mills, and it's 12 ply (the Lionbrand yarn is much thicker), so I've had to fiddle with the pattern quite a bit to get it all how I want it. There are, predictably, quite a few more stitches involved as a consequence, but it wouldn't be a genuine Poppalina Creation without me making things as hard for myself as I possibly can. Kapinny will readily verify this.

That said, it's looking beautiful and is an absolute pleasure to knit. It's been decades since I worked in 12 ply, or knitted cables. I really should do it more often. Complex enough to keep you interested, but not so complex that you can't give your full attention to a good Turner Classic Movie, or twenty...

 

So, yeah.

Here's to ducks and rain and big, chunky knitting.

 

Oh. And to Irving Thalberg. Such a big output for so short a life. Amazing.

I'm quietly working my way through his catalogue.

  
 
  

  

Indian Runners

 

By Shula

 

Introducing Candy Darling....

and Edie.

Our two week old Indian Runners, currently locked in the bathroom, because the dog is completely beside himself (mostly with jealousy, I suspect), and I can't guarantee their safety.

We don't want the Frogdancer Massacre happening at our house, man...

If Candy Darling is not a drake, I will eat my knitting. He's so much bigger than Edie, and his protectiveness of her is already evident. She, in turn, will carry on like a pork chop if she's separated from him for more than one second. He is solid, and placid, and huge; she is small and fine, and highly strung. I am surprised that the breeder was unable to see this, despite my pointing it out to her more than once. I expect it may have had something to do with the fact that she had an army of drakes out back that she didn't know what to do with, and frankly, these guys were being offered as a team, or nothing. 

Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.

Besides, Candy Darling was originally a man, after all.

I found a portacot in the hard garbage on the way home, and plan to keep them in it when they graduate from the box, but before they move to the coop. I'm pretty chuffed about this. I feel resourceful. And clever.

And how's all this rain? As my nanna would've said....

Nice weather for ducks.

We think so.

Here's hoping I don't accidently kill them.