Sometimes I think everything boils down to fiction ... or perhaps just fades into fiction ... or perhaps is resurrected in fiction ... or something.
The occasion for this thought came yesterday in "the distinguished chickens of Valley Street."
There are, actually-factually, four of five chickens that roam the neighborhood here. They bring a welcome originality to an otherwise bland and stable block.
Black, white, speckled and all of them big. They walk their strange, rocking walks with the imperiousness and nonchalance of assured dowagers who once wore lace at wrist and throat. There is something of the well-strung bodice in their demeanor, like English ladies at tea who know their station and their station is correct.
Perhaps, if they converse, it is to remember cousin Rodney who returned from the war, handsome as ever, and yet with a smoldering, distant flatness in his eye. Did you know they gave him a back office at the company firm, Damocles and Whittier, Solicitors? Rodney was family after all and there are exceptions made for family... even if it was clear Rodney was no longer cut out for the thin, raw line of balancing income and a client's heart.
The distinguished chickens of Valley Street know the world as it should be and are content to play a perfect role. They are kind and reserved when confronted by outsiders and those of lesser station. It is not their place to question too closely the activities of their robust mates, whose foolishness can sometimes be hard to overlook. Theirs is to stroll and twirl a parasol with pink, clean hands. They have their charities, of course.
They are not bad people.
They are simply assured.
And, of course, distinguished without emphasizing the distinctions.