Earlier in the week the worst sound in the world was the incessant sirens of the fire engines on their way to the nearby blaze.
Today the worst sound in the world is my own voice, unanswered by our five chicks and two beautiful hens. When I left for the train station early on Thursday morning I made the executive decision not to lock the chooks up. In case there was a fire, I liked the idea that they would smell the smoke or feel the radiant heat and escape to some place safe.
I am sorry to say that my decision killed them. Not by fire, but by fox.
This morning before I met PJ at the airport shuttle bus, I went to see The Water Hole exhibition at ACCA, which I loved. I'm not sure you can see from this photo but the discarded plastic water bottles form a giant nest on which sit dozens of abandoned eggs.
To these birds that were born into the leftovers of our consumerables, and to our seven birds that were consumed, I say I'm sorry.