Some joker called JD Vance, Donald Trump’s running mate, for now, took a swipe at his country being run by what he sneeringly called “childless cat ladies”. This was supposed to be bitingly insulting. Childless cat ladies everywhere went on being happily childless while their cats merely yawned, as cats are wont to do. Purveyors of gimmicky T-shirts are purring all the way to the bank. If JD Vance wants to be vice-president, he will have to sharpen his claws.
Almost all of my friends are delighted to be known as childless cat ladies. Those gimmicky T-shirts will make for fine Christmas presents. But I have gone one better. I have decreed myself a childless chicken lady, which would make for a good logo for a gimmicky T-shirt. Greg and I don’t have children. We have chickens. We don’t have children because we don’t like them.
“Aah,” some people say, believing themselves to be clever, “but you were once a child. Got you there!” No they haven’t. Because I have an answer to that and it is that I was a rarity: an exemplary child. I was also low maintenance. Or, just possibly, a bit thick.
My idea of entertaining myself was to fold and re-fold my handkerchief collection. I never caused any trouble. Unlike my little brother Simon, who was what was then termed a bit of a rascal and would now be called a bit of a little shit. He and his partner in juvenile crime, Jamie Martin, who lived up the road from us in Whakatāne, were larrikins straight out of Richmal Crompton’s Just William books.
Like William, who leads a band of scruffy would-be bandits called the Outlaws, Simon and Jamie were always covered in dirt and went about with pockets stuffed full of mysterious things: marbles, bits of string, Tom Thumb firecrackers and other valuables. You wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that they had small, live animals, mice, say, or frogs, living in their grimy pockets.
They caused a small explosion in our kind and elderly neighbour’s shed. This was a “science experiment”. They also threw the kind and elderly neighbour’s entire firewood supply into the river that bordered our houses. I don’t know what their explanation was for this. A wood-chucking experiment, perhaps. They came back from delivering their apologies with pockets bulging with lollies. They had charm. They were con-boys.
I have never seen the point of children. When they are babies, all they do is poop, demand to be fed, make a lot of noise and puke on you. They are unproductive members of society. Then they get a bit older and blow up sheds and chuck people’s firewood in rivers. Whereas chickens … poop, demand to be fed and make a lot of noise. Also, our gang of outlaws haven’t laid a single egg in more than a year. They are unproductive members of society. But at least they don’t puke on you. Or blow up neighbours’ sheds. Although given half a chance …
I have decided to become a narcissist, I announced. Greg said, hardly sarcastically at all, “become?” Being a narcissist is the latest thing. Everyone is now a narcissist, apparently. I wasn’t about to miss out. I sent a text to my friend Pru announcing this news. She wrote back: “Thanks for the warning.”
When we met later, she asked how being a narcissist was going. I got the distinct impression she thought I had always been a narcissist. Then I talked about myself for an hour and everyone was terribly interested. She said: “What is a narcissist?” I realised I didn’t have the faintest idea.
We arrived home to find the chickens pecking at the French doors, which is what they do when they are demanding to be fed. They do it all day long. I’m pretty sure they are also admiring their reflections in the glass. What is a narcissist? A chicken.
