A funny thing happened while I was in a cubicle of a shopping mall toilet the other day: I heard a rooster crow.
Please, just stay with me.
I dare say stranger things have happened in a shopping centre loo, but this was in "Am I Going Crazy in the Coconut?" territory.
The rooster continued calling ... three times.
No-one else was at the wash basin, so I couldn't check if I was the only one tuned to Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Radio.
I gravitated towards the sound like a sailor to a siren.
I pushed through the kiddies in Santa's photo-op line to find a pen full of cute little cuddlies from a local farm. I patted the assorted exotic chooks, lambs and goats with equal parts relief and affection.
I then entered the mother of all barnyards: the department store.
In my corner of the world (suburban Australia) the pre-Christmas cocktail is a heady mix of humidity, short tempers and unreasonable expectations.
That day, I had a bee in my bonnet and it was getting on my goat.
"You're too young to be a grumpy old woman," I reminded myself as I entered Barnyard Bargains. Hens and chickens were scratching around the shelves as far as the eye could see. Roosters patrolled the perimeter, occasionally marshalling a stray chick or strutting off to the barbecue section.
I joined the rabble, but soon realised I was not in Kansas anymore (hang on, maybe I was ... I believe there are one or two barns in Kansas) as the hens started exploding around me in synchronised screeching at their chicks. Littlies were brought into line with a sharp peck or wing clip.
Mercifully I managed to pluck out what I needed without significant blood loss.
I couldn't hear a rooster crowing anymore, but I sure as merry hell could hear Michael Buble.
Now I've nothing against the Buble boy, but I have a conspiracy theory that a retailers' rule book exists, and it includes the chapter Holiday Playlists to Make the Punters Spend Like Drunken Sailors. I bet it goes something like this: Father's Day (Cranky Frankie, Creedence or Cold Chisel); Mother's Day (that nice Michael Crawford or Susan Boyle); Easter (who cares? Just make it bouncy); Australia Day (John Williamson) and Christmas (the vocal stylings of Buble, followed closely by Mariah).
I scurried to the checkout and joined the queue, just like a sheep set for dipping.
But relief at reaching the end of the line was short-lived when I was released from the pen not drenched, but fleeced.
How much? Holy cow!
The bee in my bonnet had suddenly taken a holiday. But I could hear something else: Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Who stuffed that turkey in my bonnet?
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