I IM my brother to tell him I am having bushchicken for dinner. He wants to know if this is some kind of rat. Bushchicken is what we call those scrawny scraggy loud things that run about, not really being looked after and making lots of noise and keeping us awake at night. Basically, to eat one is like chewing a boiled shoe. That’s still attached to a foot.
I collar Chief and ask him how I should cook this thing. He wants to know how strong my teeth are.
I decide to ask Milly to cook it for me. My Lamba is not very good, nor is her English. Mostly we communicate by smiling and pointing. It’s a bit Monty Python. Although at this stage the chicken is quite Withnail & I – we even have that kettle. I gesticulate at the chicken, the pot and the cooker. Milly smiles. Yes Madam. Hurrah, I think, we’re making progress.
As I am walking out the door Milly enquires, Madam, pieces? Yes please, I say, and carry on back to the office. It is only as I sit here that I realise that pieces will probably mean the inclusion of skull and claws in the pot. Where is The Dog…