I boiled up a couple of chicken carcasses yesterday, to make soup for today. It's a big footy day for Will and David (Dockers v Melbourne), and they love to come home from the oval to a bowl of good, hearty soup.
So there I was this morning, having strained the stock, picking over the bones to remove the best bits of the meat for the soup pot.
And trying not to think about whether the bits I was discarding (for the dog's bowl) would, in fact, go into commercially-made pies for human consumption.
To take my mind off that, I wondered whether in a past life I'd have been one of those little old Ancient Greek crones who rooted through the remains of freshly-slain chooks to see how the lads were faring in Thermopylae.
I figured that would probably have been my fate — the wizened, warted and moustached old dear — rather than being one of the tall, skinny ones who got the glam gig at Delphi and consorted with Heroes.
Anyway, that led me to wonder if, in the bones of the poor old boiler I had in my hands, I could foretell the fate of the Dockers at Subi this arvo.
But there was a distinct lack of oracular mistiness and scoreboard auguring.
And that led me to thinking about dead chooks as an Ancient Greek precursor to the interwebs.
And that reminded me of a conversation I had with my best friend Laura the other day.
We were in the car and I was parking on Rokeby Road, and she said to me: "Did you know you can use your wee to get wi-fi?"
And in a nano-second I thought, I must get Laura out more often, and away from whatever earth-mothery influences are driving her to such weirdness ... but then the double-I spelling kicked in and I realised my error.
The soup looks good!