Comings and Goings

I am suitably embarrassed and chastised at the tardiness of this entry. I could blame it on many things - but instead will take it on the chin.

We finally found a home which filled our rigorous criteria for Bambi and Thumper: a private reserve 2 hours into the middle of nowhere on a bush-track of potholes dug by bored Cornish navvies. All we had to do was build a cage for the truck, catch and drug the deer (see dodgy photo) and take them on a day-trip: a very simple, stress-free week's work. Stress levels considerably tested as Thumper alternated between getting his head stuck in the carrier, and using the missus as a trampoline, and to top the lot Bambi popped her clogs just as we getting her out of the truck. Chalk up another first: successful mouth to mouth on a deer (Jerry did the kissy bit - you may tease mercilessly). Finally, at last, hurrah... resurrected deer safely delivered to Gallon Jug. Bless you Mr Zander.

A merry week flew by as an old school friend descended with hubby and 3 offspring. I have to say, not just a little trepidation preceded their arrival; 3 girls under 11 - not the usual variety of Rock Farm visitors. I suspected various bottle openers would be banished to the darker recesses of the kitchen drawers. As it happens, Joanna, Katy and Pippa were an absolute joy, a credit to their parents, and they may all add parrot feeding, poo-scraping and duck herding to their ever-growing CV's. If the experience taught me anything, I learned that should anyone ask about holidays for the little people in their lives, I can say with impunity that Jenny and Andy are the best parents in the world and I've no doubt you would have a lovely time at their house. (only joking girls - come back soon!)

Meanwhile, back in the aviary, Spike is on Red Bull and back to his old trick of flying at your face. We have become very adept at catching him on a stick and flinging him back into the tree - rather like a bizarre game of Parrot-Lacrosse. The long-awaited release of Timba and Chichi resulted in a disappearing Chichi. Obviously her frantic cries for escape were not so much 'let me out' as 'get me away from this maniac red lored'. I think I now know what "call the police" sounds like in white-fronted speak. Timba crawled back into the aviary and immediately hit on the only other available white-fronted female. I think something in his head may be broken.