Something has been bothering BabbelOn since the carolling season began. It’s the 12 Days of Christmas. Not the actual days so much as the carol about partridges and pear trees and such like.
At one level it’s a lovely song about giving. On reflection, however, (and isn’t that what Christmas is all about?) it’s a parable of untrammelled consumerism and obsession bordering on the criminal.
It starts innocently enough. On the first day of Christmas – which doesn’t appear in any calendar BabbelOn has ever seen but working backwards must be the 14th of December – a partridge in a pear tree arrives on the doorstep. How delightful one thinks. My true love is indeed thoughtful and original and, by the way, getting in very early with the pressies.
This does raise the first of many Christmas etiquette issues. When is it just too early to send presents? BabbelOn assumes that the PIPT arrived unwrapped; wrapping a bird seems a little cruel, even allowing for air holes in the paper. So the gift is received, opened on December 14. When does one send the thank you note? Unfortunately, etiquette soon becomes the least of one’s problems.
Day two and another early morning knock on the door. This time Australia Post presents two turtle doves and another partridge in a pear tree. After some confusion concerning duplicate delivery orders resolved by a quick call to the depot, one begins to twig that this may not be the last game bird one sees this year. Anyhow, the turtle doves and the partridge seem to be getting along OK and couple of pear trees could be just the ticket for that garden bed along the back fence.
Day three. Sean from Australia Post arrives just after 7am with a raised eyebrow and three French hens, two more turtle doves and another PIPT. After signing for them with a jocular shrug, one begins to contemplate the darker side of Christmas, and just what the hell it is that One’s True Love is up to.
Anywho, there is plenty of room in the yard for the hens and doves and partridges and three pear trees look better than two along the fence. With a bit of water and plenty of bird droppings, they will be flowering in no time.
Day four and one is waiting for Sean with a cup of tea. “Four calling birds” the card says. Be grateful they’re not kookaburras jokes Sean as he tucks into his second piece of panettone. Or koels, one jokes back, failing to see the humour.
The calling birds and another three French hens join their colleagues in the backyard and immediately begin scratching at the lawn. One considers the merits of a large chook house and calls Bunning’s for some indicative prices. Luckily the pre-Christmas sales are in full swing and a hen house is ordered for just $495 (including delivery and assembly). One tries to mentally calculate the number of eggs the hens will need to lay to pay for it.
Day five begins with a dawn chorus from the calling birds and Sean and his van with the now familiar avian menagerie and, bless my soul, five gold rings. At last a romantic and practical gift.
With the price of gold where it is, this present tips the ledger back towards the positive. If things get really tough, there is always the pawn shop. Partridges don’t feed themselves you know. Plus it turns out that pear trees are totally inadequate shelter for a ground dwelling forager. Fortunately they seem to get along with the turtle doves and the hens so they can all go into the chook house.
On day six, Sean brings six geese a-laying and five more gold rings. The calling birds, hens, doves and partridge go straight into the hen house, which is now at capacity.
The geese present something of a problem as they are too big and broody to go in with the others. At this stage one decides to let them go free range. They apparently will eat grass and weeds and make great lawn mowers.
The second row of pear trees has gone in and, if my true love keeps it up, one has the beginnings of a delightful little orchard.
Day seven brings swans! The birds are getting bigger. Keeping one’s sense of humour, one puts the swans in the pool with the geese and orders another hen house, this time the larger one.
It turns out that 12 geese are noisier than 16 calling birds. Who would have thought it? The honking and the flapping and the excreting is quite theatrical. The neighbours certainly agree, as their carefully worded letter points out.
On the eighth day, things start to get a bit bizarre in the gift receiving department. After Sean has left the 28 various birds (the 14 swans and 18 geese have totally taken over the pool area and the chlorinator is just not coping), a bus load of maids arrives. Yes, maids. Eight of them.
After checking their immigration status (all Filipinas on 457 visas), one puts them immediately to work feeding the hens and hosing down the pool deck.
Day nine dawns with the usual chorus and Sean with his truck. The maids are up early to clean the house and tidy the lounge room where they slept. One sends four of them to the supermarket with a list (we are totally out of chicken feed and pool acid).
Around 9 o’clock the bus is back, this time bringing nine “ladies”. One says ”ladies” because that is how they are described on the card from my true love. Graham the driver raises his eyebrows as he gives it to me.
It turns out they are British backpackers. Maids are useful but what is one to do with backpackers, some of whom are distinctly more ladette than lady? With an entrepreneurial flash, after checking their immigration status (all on working holiday visas), one sends them off to the mall, sporting matching t-shirts and clipboards, to raise money for a shelter for homeless birds and unwanted Christmas pets. One could be onto something here.
On day ten, the human trafficking continues with the arrival of ten lords (British lads from the same hostel as the ladies) as well as another nine ladies and eight more maids.
One’s anticipatory skills having become finely honed, one is ready for the bus (morning Graham!) and ships them straight off to the mall to join the others. Sean stays for an hour or so to help herd the new swans and geese into the pool area, which is beginning to resemble an avian concentration camp.
The 24 maids are complaining about the noise and smell and having to do the bathrooms for 28 backpackers. The quote for the 30 gold rings has come in ($3,798 at today’s spot price) which should just about cover the lawyer’s fees as long as the neighbours are prepared to settle early.
Day 11 (Christmas Eve) brings a truckload of hens, geese, swans, calling birds, turtle doves and a PIPT and a busload of maids, ladies, lords and (what next?) bagpipers. Kilts, sporrans and all.
If one didn’t feel like screaming, one would laugh hysterically. The neighbours (both sides) have set up a picket line out the front and Sean and Graham did well to negotiate an entrance without injury. In a gesture of goodwill and conciliation (no admission of liability to be inferred) one offers the latest maids to each neighbour (four each), with a basket of goose eggs and two bags of home-made Dynamic Lifter. For the first time, detente seems a possibility.
On the morning of Christmas Day, the TV crews are in place early. One has done interviews and been photographed with half the street. The pipers are playing carols (one in particular is on high rotation) and have been joined by 12 drummers adding a calypso beat.
By the time the trucks and buses have pulled out the general mood is festive.
After paying off the council, the Australian Quarantine & Inspection Service (who’d have thought that French hens were imported) and Immigration (three of the maids, two ladies and a piper were overstayers) – luckily the spot price of gold is up – one can almost see the moral in My True Love’s obsessive generosity.
Sometimes ’tis better to give than to receive.
