So I returned home from a lovely week in Jeffreys Bay (some
musings about the driving skills of people whose registration plates end in FS
and NW to follow) to find the geese neatly lined up at the gate.
"Hello," I said.
They looked at me from their neat little row like little choir geese in church.
"You all look very well behaved," I add, starting
to worry.
A quick count revealed that all the animals were where they
should be so the geese didn't accidentally or on purpose kill anybody.
The dodgy-looking peacock was happily though still illegally
squatting the in front garden.
Jean-Luc the mongoose was busy digging for
whatever-it-is-that-he-digs-for by the pine tree.
The ducks were swimming in the dam.
Rambo the frog was tending his illegal froggy arms-cache
behind the washing machine.
The crazy brown bird was happily pecking away at the
windows.
The swallows were busy constructing the third story of their
house.
Stanton the tortoise had returned from wherever his latest
midlife crisis took him and the pig and the horse were neatly behind their own
fence for a change.
I did a quick walk through the house, noting in a moment of
Martha-Stewartesque smugness that my peppermint oil spider repellent was
working very well.
And then I got to the stoep. My beautiful tranquil stoep
that was covered in geese poo.
At this point, of course, the geese errupted in an energetic
WWE-styled wrestling match as if to distract me from the small Everest of poo
on the stoep.
"What happened here," I asked. "Have you been
sleeping on the stoep again?"
The geese seized their wrestling for one second to treat me
to a rarely seen look of geese innocence. One looked over at Jean-Luc.
"Don't even try blaming this on him," I said
strictly. (I don't have favourites but I really, really like Jean-Luc).
The geese looked at me pensively.
"Jean-Luc would never have covered his apples in poo,"
I say feeling like detective Columbo and pointing at the poor Mongoose's apple
bowl covered in poo.
I turned around, stomped into the house where I made some
coffee, had a cookie and pondered the problem of how to clean poo without
actually touching poo. It is one thing for Helen Zille to complain about the
poo flingers in Cape Town - but she doesn't actually have to clean it up.
For a brief moment I considered moving.
Then I turned to the books. Turns out that not even the
comprehensive How to Keep House, published in the 1950s but with some excellent
home management tips, had a solution.
Next I realise that there is a plethora of advice on how to
clean bird poo on the internet - all describing the first step as "soaking
the poo." Lovely.
Then it dawned on me that I am the only one who can clean it.
Shopping list:
Industrial strength gloves.
Industrial strength kitchen paper. (Preventing any
accidental seepage)
A dozen chocolate cookies.
Two bottles of bubbly. (Ok, maybe three)
Right Rambo cover me, I am going in.
