My daughter moved into her first sharehouse this year, and every now and then, she brings home a story that reminds me how glad I am not to live in share housing anymore. This week it was the quail lady.
A woman who lives across the street from them had taken to inviting herself into the house. She would wander in as though she lived there, sit down and watch TV with them, adding her commentary to whatever was on screen. She’d get a snack from the fridge, use the bathroom, and wander out again as though her bedroom was eccentrically located in a block of apartments across the road. She also kept quails.
A quail wandered in one day, sat down, watched a bit of TV, got a snack from the fridge, and so on. The housemates weren’t sure what to do, so they checked in with the guy next door, who had previously found himself in a relationship with the quail lady. A relationship that had come to an end.
“Yeah,” he said. “The quail lady organised a bush doof, but it didn’t work out. She’s in Mexico now.”
I didn’t think anyone still organised bush doofs. (Dance parties in the Bush for my overseas readers). I thought that was an 80s thing. Anyway, the doof did not go well, and she fled the country.
She didn’t take the quails, though. They were sort of penned in under a table that had been wrapped in chicken wire. Ingenious or desperate, it didn’t really matter. They forced an escape.
What are we going to do? The housemates wondered. She’s got like five or six quails here.
The guy shrugged. Yeah, it’ll take care of itself. She used to have a lot more. But they’ve been escaping into the neighbourhood and mostly getting eaten by dogs and cats.
It is a good eating bird, the quail. So, you know, if you’re in the Gabba area and feeling a bit peckish…
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