“Those bloody rosellas!” The trees are awash with splashes of red, blue and yellow feathers, each gobbling greedily, screeching loudly, confirming to the multitude that the fruit is ripe. I have the broom, waving it manically as I run into the orchard.
Frustrated tears fall as I race around, ineffectually shoo-shooing, flapping the broom, yelling and dancing around like a banshee. Individuals begrudgingly lift off from a tree, circle lazily overhead, unapologetic, obviously annoyed at my intrusion into an otherwise tasty meal. They remain airborne momentarily, before drifting downwind and settling into another, more distant cherry tree.
We have been arguing, acknowledging that the birds will be circling soon. We agree that netting the trees is now urgent. The fruit is starting to blush beautifully; provocatively. “Yer yer. I’ll be onto it directly.”
His mobile rings. I watch, and see his eyes take on a misty, hypnotic sort of glaze. “Yep. Yer. Wow. You bet. That’s great. I’ll see you down at the shed in an hour.” He grabs his gear, advising “Macca is meeting me down at the boatshed – the Snapper are biting something fierce!” He and the Ute are gone!
“Bloody thanks, Barry.” It is a two-person job to get the nets up and the birds are having a field day. Bugger him: the prick! I’ll do it myself!
I climb the stepladder, the netting tentatively secured over my shoulder. They’re awkward and weigh a tonne, but I get several lengths over the framework. ‘He and his bloody snapper can go to bloody hell’ I fume, as I climb down to reposition the ladder. The netting falls back to the ground. “Shit!”
I replace Barry with the broom, quite satisfactorily. I get an effective rhythm going. The netting stays in position and I move on to the next crossbar. “Take that, you bugger” as I stab the broom into a fisherman. He sploshes into the water and I gain extra netting over the frame.
Beady eyes watch my progress, the cackling suggests scornful appraisal, but by late afternoon, what remains of the crop is under netting. I grab the broom and race around underneath, yelling obscenities, loudly. I get the last of the rosellas out and tie down the sides. I laugh defiantly at the screeching protest from the nearby gums.
“Look at this beauty – I reckon it will go 3 kilos.” I grab the fish and walk to the kitchen door. I toss it out onto the back lawn. I yell “come and get it” into the approaching dusk, inviting any stray cats or fish-eating rosellas to a feast. “Hey, that’s our dinner!”
I throw a scornful look over my shoulder as I make my way to the bathroom. “I am ordering a small pizza, with extra anchovies, olives and a serve of garlic bread: for one! Enjoy the fish!”
Steamy suds sting several superficial scratches. Sipped sparkling shiraz starts soothing strained, stiff muscles, as I review and confirm what has been a long, defining day!