Day 287.

A day at the beach. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

I was remembering Jack’s brothers Whoahup, Rusty and Salsa again last night. Mischief in feathers, those three – made the Boys look like angels if the truth be known. What they used to do when our backs were turned would bleach your feathers – maybe The Female Person has a point about roosters and me. I remembered one day the Boys (Whoahup, Rusty, Salsa and Jack, that is) disappeared for the whole day but came back at sundown saying they had been to the BEACH. We can hear the sea from here but it is a very long way away AND it is across the death strip. Which reminds me of a joke I once heard:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the death strip?
A: To prove to the possum that it could be done.

Ha! Brilliant. Anyway the Boys went to the beach and told us fabulous stories about lots of people (some with absolutely NO clothing on! Makes me shudder to think of it), cars, horses and dogs on the beach. They also found loads of sand fleas hopping around which made for great tasty sport. They liked the beach they said but found that sand got EVERYWHERE and they had itchy cloacae for days afterwards.