Two Slaughtered Birds

And A Party in the Pantry.

Have I told you I hate markets?

No, not the cool, sterile, air-conditioned convenience supermarkets that a growing number of us urbanites have grown up with. Wouldn't surprise me these days some town kids imagine that milk comes ( not from a bovine betty! ) but from a plain rectangular tetra-pak box.


How to milk a cow!
Think old-fashioned markets of yesteryear - at least over here in Asia - with endless rows of colourful ( often mysterious ) produce presenting a vigorous assault to the senses. From the eyes with the vibrant colours of the fresh vegetables energetically waved right in front of your nose by the overenthusiastic grocer. From the ears with rousing yells coming from the boisterous butchers added to the cries of the lusty fishmongers along with the clamorous din of the customers bargaining at the top of their voices. And there's the nose - the ever-present ( almost overpowering ) scent of fish and meats mingled with the slight taint of herbicides from the greens.

And the slosh. The mush. The gunk. Fish guts, meat entrails, whatcamacallits and everything else that I simply couldn't ( and wouldn't dare ) to name.

Reason enough that I avoid the place as much as possible. Swimming in mystery excrement simply isn't the ideal way to spend a weekend. Have you ever tried to get those impossible stains away?

Still for reasons I have been unable to fathom, my mother simply lives for such moments. When she found out that the Christmas shindig was growing immeasurably larger than the intimate gathering I had originally planned, she practically clapped her hands with glee. The thought of wading through all that mulch obviously puts a light spring in her step.

For me, I find myself dragging my feet.

Mother : There's always something new. A new vegetable. A new fish.
Paul : Hallelujah. Who will buy? I could sing like Oliver.
Mother : Show some enthusiasm!
Paul : You can make me get up in the morning to drive you here but you can't make me enjoy this.
Mother : Ooh. Look they have quail's eggs for only 3 bucks.
Paul : Eeew. I think I stepped on something. Don't tell me. It's someone's brains. The last victim of the midnight market murders, I'm sure.

No, I'm not a fan of squishy feet.