Gilly Flower

I'm crossing literary swords at the moment, within the Letters pages of our local rag.

A pulp mill proponent has taken exception to some statistics I quoted, that related to the extent of Tasmanian opposition to the proposed polluting monolith.

The local rag - which isn't nicknamed The Exaggerator, or Gunns' mouthpiece, for nothing - edited to the point of total irrelevance the last of my polite, but stinging responses, which has provoked yet another attack.

So one more little riposte to RC of Invermay has now been emailed, via the Ex's editor, so it will be interesting to see how she'll handle that one!

We both have our letter-writing supporters though. But the proponents increasingly sound desperate. For those of us who oppose the mill the scent of victory is getting stronger.

Bring it on!

It would seem Chanticleer III's recent inadvertent incarceration was more traumatic for the old boy than we first thought. He fell off his perch last night. Literally.

He definitely hadn't bounced back with the same gusto as the fair-feathered female who was locked up with him. He'd visibly aged, and was to be seen limping rather than running at any hint of food handouts, but we didn't think he was about to pop his clogs.

He was still alive this morning early when I checked him out poor fellow, but while bringing him inside to warm him up a bit helped slightly, he didn't really recover.

When I put him back outside in the sunshine it was rather touching to see all his females gather round in a silent vigil, giving him the odd peck & cluck until he finally expired.

But it's a case of 'the king is dead, long live the king'. The sexual orientation of the large and gangly bantam we thought might be an 'it', has been established. And 'it' is a rooster. He's given a few tentative cock-a-doodle-dos and was today seen having it away with one of the girls.

So the next generation is assured after all!