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Definition of sad ... and how 'eight times three equals six!'

School run in the morning is currently a slaloming, throwing-the-children-and-cellos-around-in-the-back-of-the-car, break jumping and hence stop-starting, sharply indrawing of breath and shouting of "You stupid birds!", hair-raising activity, owing to an apparent surplus (?) of suicidal pheasants. The chaps see you coming, wait ... wait a bit longer, ruffle their tail feathers in a 'you might not be there in a moment sort of a way,' wait ... puff out their chests ... and step off the verge onto the road. Is this a stiff-upper-beak way of saying to the others, "No, you have my share of the food, lads - there isn't enough for us all"; or is it bloody mindedness - the pheasant version of the game 'chicken'; or could it just be the pheasant-Gump version of 'stoopid is as stooopid does'!?

It's usually the men - who slowly and with stately air glance along their beak at you, as everything hits the windscreen, school bags empty themselves all over the car floor, and you pray that you had checked there wasn't another car behind you, and don't breathe for the few seconds that confirm there wasn't.

Today, however we drove round a bend and were greeted by a sad sight. Truly sad.

We don't see the little pheasant ladies as often as the chaps, but when we do, they often make us laugh. They run around busily all over the road. Gossiping to each other. Pecking at things. Ducking. Fluffing their wings. Running in circles - "Have I said hello? Hello, I'm Phoebe. Oh, there's Polly? Hi! Hello Polly! I'm coming! Hello, Polly - look there's Poppy. Quick Poppy - wait! I'm coming! Hello Poppy - look there's Polly. Hi! Polly! Wait! I'm coming Polly. Hello Polly - shall we go and say hello to Poppy? ..."

Unfortunately, their flighty nature makes them rather more difficult to avoid than the male pheasants.And the sad little picture we saw today, was a squashed member of the pheasant ladies' rural institute. being pecked at by a couple of crows. Standing over her, forlorn and watching, was her little friend.She was the physical embodiment of the word sad - little 'shoulders' drooped, head hung low. Stationary! No doubt (but probably not!) thinking, "Hello?... Polly? Oh deeeeear, Polly's gone. I'm hello-ing in ever decreasing circles."


So, to lift the mood after this gloomy tale and in an abrupt change of subject - we were revising the eight times table in the car this morning, before we saw the sorry scene above.
And I will never cease to be amazed by the acrobatic skills of a child's mind, particularly one who isn't very good at maths. Asked what is eight times three, Littlest replied confidently, after a minute or so's calculation, "Six!"

Explanation? ... "I couldn't remember, so I started counting in threes - 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18 ... and there's an eight in eighteen, and eighteen divided by three is ... six!........!"



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