On rain and roast chicken

Cold, wet and grey today.

And until very recently jolly dark too.

Mr Dominic and I have enjoyed several conversations since dawn as to the whereabouts of the power: turned off, apparently, until now obviously (otherwise I wouldn’t be typing) whilst they replace poles for the power lines.

I ask Rehema why they waited to replace the poles until they’d all rotted and fallen over.

Because, she says, matter-of-factly, ‘this is Tanzania’.


We had roast chicken for supper last night.

What’s the occasion, asked Amelia. None, I reminded her, I am merely cheering us up since your father has left home.

Chicken, you see, is a rare treat. Partly because I object to forking out for something the size of a sparrow which looks as if it has spent its life as a long-distance runner, and partly because chickens are hard to find – not because they are all out jogging and can’t be caught but because recent Rift Valley Fever scare means that everybody’s ditched beef in favour of skinny chickens you can hardly see.

Chicken in our case was supplemented by about 43 roast potatoes to make up for the lack of meat.

And whilst I’m on roast chicken rant, if we can send men to the moon, if we can build tunnels that run under the sea, if we can rejuvenate old bats with shots of botox, why hasn’t anybody engineered chickens with four legs? You cannot share two drumsticks between three children. And if you are old like me, you cannot remember who had them last time (because given chicken rarity, that’s a very long time ago). And no, offering wishbone to the third, disappointed child won’t do. My children are too greedy to be interested in scant offerings of a wish bone (besides which, they know that seldom do their wishes – for Play Stations mainly – come true; they’d rather eat than waste wishes.)

Which means, in short, that rare roast chicken dinner is inevitably sullied with a stonking great row. Such as the one I endured last night.


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