Coming Home To Rooster

National Lockdown Day: 272

There are many television shows, particularly of the BBC ilk, about abandoning the “rat race”, and living a more simple and wholesome life. Why not Escape to the Country (2002-present), where you sell your London studio and embark on a new life in Dorset, surrounded by lush greenery and mooing? Or for those who are less erudite about country living, you can try your hand at The Good Life (1975), and erect a chicken hutch on your handkerchief suburban garden?

I don’t know where I am in the Matrix, but I feel like I’ve accidentally landed in a terrible hybrid BBC television show, I’m Not A Celebrity, But Please Get Me Out of Here Anyway (forthcoming). Here’s the thing, I left Cape Town at the beginning of Lockdown, not to live the simple life, but simply because I like the company of my parents, and they were on the verge of getting scurvy. Armed with a bag of oranges, some stowaway wine (look away Bheki Cele), and these newfangled vegetables, I arrived back in my home town of Hilton.

Here marks a critical juncture in our story. Did you notice how I referred to Hilton as my home town? Hilton is a town. I understand that this will be a heartbreaking revelation for many of you, but you can’t argue with the facts. And here, let’s quickly segue to my favourite Factition (I made that word up) Hans Rosling. Hans Rosling was all about facts; he even wrote a book about them, called Factfulness, which you should read immediately. Rosling dedicated his life to “measuring ignorance systematically”, so I think we should all give him the respect he deserves and not revert back to the pandemic of global ignorance, and the ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion, facts be damned!’ mindset. Here’s a not-so-fun fact for you, ‘did you know that chimpanzees answering tests at random know more about the world than humans do?’ 

The problem is most of us are unable to distinguish between thinking and feeling. And let’s link this back to my original point about Hilton being a town. Many of you may feel very differently to me, and you may feel that Hilton is a charming and incomparable village. You may feel that it’s a village because you hear people yammering on about lanes, country-living, popping into town (Pietermaritzburg), popping to the village (The Quarry) for a scone, and you might even read material on Village Chat. Sadly these sentiments smack of a bygone era, one which I happen to remember well. 

I grew up going to The Hilton Tearoom on a Sunday, and it was the only place open. I remember when Dave Hansmeyer had his butchery next to the Spar. I observed my mother purchasing Butterick patterns from Hilton Drapers, not buying fruit from The Fruit Basket, and perusing VHS tapes at Hilton Video. And remember when Upper Milestone was the vet, and when The Quarry was an actual quarry? The only survivor of the Olde Worlde Hilton is Kubela Stores, and that brings me lasting and infinite joy. In short, Hilton was a village because it was small.

Keeping up the idea that Hilton is a village is sadly exclusionary. While we should hang on to vestiges of charm and loveliness, the fact remains that Hilton’s borders extend beyond ideas of what is local. In fact, a precursory Google search and landing on the academically recognised Wikipedia tells us that ‘Hilton is a small town (now incorporated into the town of Howick to the North West) that lies on the brow of the escarpment above Pietermaritzburg in KwaZulu-Natal South Africa’. I’m as shocked as you are. Is Howick in charge of us, and why didn’t we incorporate them? Were we colonised by Howick? I dare say I shall have to write a letter to The Natal Witness to complain. OK, OK, you got me. I used Wikipedia as a source, and that’s just sloppy factfulness. So let’s look at the defining factors of a town and a village. A village is defined as a small community (less than 2500 people) in a rural area, and a town is relatively well-populated, has fixed boundaries, and has a local government. Town 1: Village 0.  

So, while many of you may feel that Hilton is a village because it’s been discursively loaded with its own unique brand of jargon, it is, in fact, a town. So now that I’ve set up some extraordinary context, backed up with some lovely facts, let’s go for the jugular. 

It’s come to my attention that Lockdown has done something very peculiar to some of you. Maybe it was the booze ban, maybe it was the term “webinar”, maybe it was homeschooling, maybe it was the frustration of seeing your colleague working from bed and being told for the umpteenth time that he was on mute? It appears that some existential crises have been afoot, and I blame the banana bread fiasco. You see, it starts with banana bread, and then it ends up with a fucking rooster. Pre-lockdown we’d all watch those lonely brown bananas languish in the fruit bowl, and we’d utter that hopeful phrase, ‘I should really make banana bread with those’. Every trip to the kettle would layer on more guilt about the increasingly blackening bananas, until the stench of banana and guilt led them to their inevitable doom of the dustbin. Lockdown gave us no excuses, it really was the time for pineapples and bananas to shine. People could not wait for bananas to rot fast enough or for pineapples to ferment and fizz. It was this frenzy of rotting and fermentation that I believe led to the sourdough and Kimchi caper. 

But where do you get the cabbage for your Kimchi? Well Shirley, you grow it yourself. Next thing Shirley and Brian (who have never been near Korea, and nor will they) have been spurred on by their Urban Vegan daughter-in-law to embrace the health benefits of this culturally appropriated foodstuff. Monday rolls around, and Winston (not his real name obviously) has been micromanaged by Shirley and Brian and erects netting for the new vegetable patch. There’s also a compost heap that Brian tells all his friends is ‘coming up a treat’. Shirley and Brian are so delighted that they’ve been able to bring the country back into their little corner of town living, that they almost forget the potholes and rolling blackouts. By reframing Hilton as a place in the country, potholes and blackouts add to the charm. It’s a veritable win-win.

The trouble is that I’m now in a position where homesteading has got completely out of control. Dare I say it, it’s completely fucking bonkers. People in this town are going gangbusters, and they’re egging (sorry) each other on. Enter from stage right, not one, but two roosters. And say what you will about hadedas, they’re more local than all of us put together. Roosters, on the other hand, are illegal. So it is, that my day is now punctuated by the piercing squawk of country living from dusk ’til dawn. Apparently this is OK though, because the roosters rise with the hadedas, and they provide a 12-hour soundtrack of country living, which is utterly delightful, and fucking charming, don’t you know? And, if you disagree well, ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion’.

Here’s the thing, my feelings towards roosters are absolutely my feelings, but more than that, it’s a simple fact that according to every by-law I can find, that roosters are absolutely not allowed, despite how well-behaved they are. All roosters in residential areas must pack up and head to the metaphorical or physical farm. Sayonara Assholes! It’s not my opinion; it’s a hard fact that keeping a rooster in a residential is illegal. So Townies, it’s time to get rid of your roosters, or you’ll be enjoying the most festive “Smells Like Teen Spirit” Christmas my Bose system can muster. But it’ll be great because if it’s synchronised with the hadedas and your fucking rooster, you won’t even notice it.

And Santa, I want drums for Christmas. And a recorder. In 2021 I’m upgrading this town to a city.