Shooting Chickens

So how many ways are there to kill a chicken?

And mind you, I don't necessarily have to administer the killing blow according to wholly halal methods.


My killing eye's out for the fowl next door. Look, I always knew Netherfield's right out there in the boondocks but I never knew it's smack dab in the countryside. Which means everything that it entails; yards, barns, stables - and that damned chicken coop.

Oh yes, cock-a-doodle-doo. Going back to their peasantry roots, my neighbours have opted to keep a chicken coop in their backyard. But rather than have meek little chicks hiding behind curtains in the henhouse, we have a rebellious rooster who crows loudly at all hours. Irregardless of daybreak. Once the aggravating monster even squawked for no apparent reason during the wee hours of the morning. No doubt he got confused by the glare of the full moon.


It's time to hunt!
So what's the best way to get myself some fresh chicken chop by morning? Death by garroting? Death by gunshot? Death by poison? Idiotic foolhardy rooster leaps to the top of the coop every morning - placing itself as the perfect target since he's in direct range of my bedroom window.

Perhaps a bow and arrow?

Of course having a fowl murder happening within weeks of our moving in wouldn't bode well for future neighbourly relations. My more murderous plans will have to wait. Have a slingshot so perhaps a warning shot would do. I think one rock at its head each time it crows at the wrong time.

Two's Company

The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.

With Netherfield being such a vast estate for a single fellow, I actually searched for someone to co-share the place with me. Certainly didn't have much of a criteria ready in place at the time so when a friend piped up that she'd be moving here as well, I readily agreed.

Kat : I'm moving to Miri.
Paul : Wanna share?
Kat : Sure.
Paul : Okay. Tell me when you arrive.

Seriously. It was that fast. And Kool Kat was my housemate.

Sharing the place seemed like an excellent idea after all. Even more mundane chores to do in such a big place - not to mention the endless repairs - and having someone else on the premises would certainly help allay my security paranoia. Financially speaking having a housemate would also help cut costs at least marginally.

That's what I initially thought. Of course I hadn't realized that I'd become an adult since my college days. And that I haven't actually had something close to a housemate in a really long time. Even less a roommate.

Even back in school, I only had the one roommate, and since Father John - the erstwhile community leader - spent his time preaching to the rest of the ungodly heathens about Jesus, I found myself by my lonesome most times. Good times that. Then as we moved on to our senior years, we graduated from our twin-share dorm rooms into cosy 4-bedroom apartments with a measly handkerchief-sized common area that no one bothered to use. Still pretty much left to ourselves.


The Paul & Kat Show?
Always had my own place ever since I started work as well. So when Kool Kat finally arrived to knock on my door, I didn't actually know what to think. Nervous wreck like me starts to worry whether we'd grow to hate each other after co-habitating. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that.

Fortunately it has been nothing of the sort. Yes, it takes some getting used to. Some of my personal habits have probably irritated her. Some of her idiosyncrasies has grated as well. Kat likes the ambient lighting stadium spotlight bright while I prefer mine as dim as moonlight. I'm a pillow arrangement fanatic while Kat likes to go casual.

And I gotta love the girl but Kat can really talk a mile a minute! Who called me a Chatty Cathy again? Come over here and I'll prove that Kat can actually match me word for word. Hell, she can edge in five to my measly uno.

Certainly will take a while to adjust. Till then thank God for dimmers.

Rock and ( Accidental ) Roll

Lately I've given up on trying to understand the inexplicably boorish behaviour of the poorly-schooled local motorists here. Not only do these eccentrics find roundabouts a mystifying puzzle, they tend to mistake brakes for pretty playthings to step on according to whim.

Let's not even talk about their vestigial signal lights.

Sigh.

When I first transferred here a year back, I once saw - to my abject horror - a driver literally sliding into a ditch at 20 km/H. Thought that was the worst to come but I was proven wrong. What happened today certainly takes the godawful cake for idiot drivers out on the road.


Good boy, if you can't drive, you'd better hitch a ride instead.
Or perhaps godawful idiotic passengers.

Coming off from work at lunchtime, I saw a car making a slow, lackadaisical turn in front of me only to have the passenger door accidentally coming ajar. The very next moment, the side passenger comes tumbling out onto the asphalt.

And you had all this happening in John Woo slow-mo style. The car rocked and she rolled, as simple as that. Even accidents take their own sweet time here in Miri.

Turns out the silly lady in a printed green sarong had forgotten to lock her seatbelt, hastily tried to shut the car door - and then got flung out by sheer momentum. Since the vehicle was comfortably moving at 20 km/H therefore she trundled out at the exact same speed. No doubt embarassed by her sheer carelessness / stupidity, she hastily dusted off her dirtied sarong and leapt back into the car that surprisingly sped off with enviable speed.

Obviously ignominious shame helps the acceleration.

So I guess it's time for a bad limerick.

There once was a lady from Miri,
Who was just a little bit silly,
Took a turn in her car,
Left her door quite ajar,
Got flung out of her car in a tizzy.

I could only stare disbelieving, wishing that I'd had a camera ready to make her youtube famous. Fortunately for her, I was only driving at half my usual speed or the unfortunate dame would have been instant roadkill.

A November in Netherfield

Certainly turning out to be an eventful November for me. What with my moving house to Netherfield followed by the recent emotional setback in my relationship!

Spoke of the ramshackle estate Netherfield as the ultimate fixer-upper - and that particular premonition has certainly come true. Not a day has gone by that I haven't called up the much-harried landowner to gripe about some minor botheration. Already have Mrs Elton's number on speed dial to ring up first thing in the morning to recite my daily litany of complaints.

From the leaking water heater to the broken locks to the chipped ceiling tiles. With many more to come.


Master of all he surveys?
Starting to feel as if I've inadvertently stepped into the shoes of Archie MacDonald, beleaguered laird of Glenbogle! Which explains the endless armies of cleaners, plumbers and repairmen traipsing in and out of the house with errands to run. Even hired a gardener to tame the feral growth of bougainvilleas by the gate.

Although our tastes differ greatly, I assured Mrs Elton that Netherfield would have a conscientious custodian in me. A worded guarantee that certainly relieved the anxious lady who worries that her ancestral estate - once out of her own able hands - would fall into a sad state of disrepair.

Paul : I've packed some of your belongings into the boxes over there.
Mrs Elton : You don't want these ornamental cats?
Paul : Don't even like them in the flesh, much less breakable porcelain ones.
Mrs Elton : You don't want this lovely, lovely peacock?
Paul : It's black, feathered and scary. The only use I would have for it is to scare away overly familiar neighbours.
Mrs Elton : What about pretty lacey tablecovers?
Paul : With roses and lilies? I'm not Victorian.

In return, I'm sure the conservative Mrs Elton had her own reservations when she stared aghast at her living room literally awash in a shade of dusky rose!

The walls might be freshly painted but the house is still a massive refurbishing project that will probably take weeks to set to rights. Picture frames to be placed on the walls. Always a broken cabinet that just needs a spray and a glaze. Some withered plants that need repotting. Torn curtains that need just a few stitches.

Netherfield's quite a big larger than I first expected. With the guest rooms, dining room, study, maid's quarters and even an annexe to the bedrooms, it's far more spacious than the cosy country cottage I lived in before. Whereas before the kitchen rests only a door away, now it takes quite a hike from the dining room!

And lets not even think of the mundane such as the eletricity / the water / the gas bills to reconnect. Certainly given me enough chores to keep me occupied for quite a while.

Netherfield shall shine again!

The Headache Excuse

'Not tonight, dear. I have a headache.'

Alright, I'll accept that banal cliché-ridden excuse. Since I've never actually had sex with a woman - nor walked in their six-inch heels, I certainly wouldn't know how to refute that particular claim when it comes from them. Don't think the ladies would appreciate being told that a wild headboard-banging night of sex can actually cure a massive migraine!

But what about the boys?

Since time immemorial, the male of the species has been branded the insatiable hound dog ready to go any time of day. Our gay brethren included of course.


Oh baby I think I've got the headache!
So when such an old hackneyed excuse of the headache comes from a guy, you gotta feel just that little bit suspicious. Just a few weeks back when a friend of mine tried to make a move, the younger fella came up with this.

Boy : Oh I have classes this week. I can't spend the night. Gotta hit the books.

Seriously. A youthful, vital twenty year old forgoes sex for books? Look, I don't care if you're swamped with textbooks, workbooks and notes for the finals - but when you're a virile college student with a chance to get your rocks off...

There's almost no saying no to that.

So any excuse to get out of a making out session just sounds like the perfect kiss-off. The gentle prelude to a goodbye.

At least to me. I don't think I'd have said no back in my early twenties. Hell, I'd skip my own damned convocation for a good fuck. Definitely missed a few soporofic biochemistry lectures, that's for sure.