It’s the birds…
Someone asked us why we use ‘old lady’ names? Well…
Who else remembers Sunday mornings as kids in your jammies - eating Vegemite on toast, reading the comic section of the newspaper and complaining [yet again] about the weird bird noises assaulting your eardrums. At volume.
For the uninitiated this was a radio program called [bloody] ‘Macca on a Sunday morning’. We were regaled with chortles from the rare Yellow-Breasted Western Warbler, or maybe it was the Blue-Crested Southern Sea Parrot. We then got Ethel, playing her knee-spoons with gusto, or old Neville ringing up to ask about bugs in his broccoli.
Queue the irony…
Mabel and me, on a road trip - sitting in our jammies, with knee blankets (it was cold!), eating toast, sharing a pot (yes a pot) of tea - rejoicing in… you guessed it… Sunday morning birdsong!
We had accidentally joined the slow movement before it was a thing. Embraced the ‘nanna’ life before we were actual nannas. Thus, ‘Mabel’ and ‘Beryl’ were born.
Now we knee-slap along with Ethel, and take notes with Nev.
There’s something special about birds. Especially on Sundays. They remind me to be present.
Be authentic. Be real. Just be.
Embrace the birds (even if you have to listen to them on the radio).
B.
Xx
