I’ve often wondered why a lot of children’s books cover the
subjects that they do. Why do most kids need to know what sound a cow makes?
Why does the modern, urban kid need to know that lions are kings of the jungles?
(Which they’re not. They’re more the Snorers of the Serengeti.)
It would be more useful to know how to spot the parking-pay-machine
in a multi-story car park or know the sound of an urban hipster when ordering a
chai latte and half-caff soy flat-white, so they can go to another coffee shop
without having to stand behind the tosser.
Well, for the most bizarre of reasons, now I know.
A neighbour of ours just got a rooster.
Let me be utterly clear about this: We live in the
Inner-West of Sydney. Not traditionally considered farming territory. The
neighbours have bought a rooster with a busted timer and he goes off from about
4.30 am to midday.
So now I have a reason to point at those bucolic baby books
and say, “Look baby-boy, a rooster! They make a cock-a-doodle-doo sound at any
time of the day and if you see one, run it over.”
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