Ever since my mum found out I was pregnant, she's been careful of how much shopping she gives me to carry. Normally, on a Sunday morning I'd take her to the produce market where she'd buy about half a dozen table hens (she REALLY likes chicken) and enough fresh vegetables to last her for the week. Nowadays, she still buys at least as much but now she makes me carry the stuff to my car over five or six trips. As far as she's concerned, she's helping me to avoid the heavy lifting while at the same time increasing the amount of exercise I do.
This week she wanted the poultry stallholder to save her some live chickens for next week. I nearly translated the whole request for her before remembering what a horrible pain in the arse it is to transport live chickens. And in my condition, too. I argued loudly and convincingly; I reminded her of how hard it is to carry a box full of scared fowl, held at arm's length to avoid the poo. I told her that there wouldn't be any room in the boot for both a bunch of beasts intent on escaping AND several bags of produce. Then I stamped my foot and went all red in the face and flatout refused. That worked.
3 comments:
Power to the pregos! :)
Holy crap! Your ma slaughters her own chickens?
Tara: she did until a couple of years ago. Before I gave up eating chicken, every Saturday she'd be slittin' their throats, pouring the blood into a container (for black pudding, chicken-style), pulling feathers and getting knee-deep in intestines (I hope you aren't eating right now). A little over an hour later we'd be tucking into one of the day's victims.
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