A pig flew by. Really. I’m not dreaming. I’m now glued to my window to try to see if there’s another one and make sure I’m I’m not delusional. It’s 1.04 pm, Sunday 20th Dec. It’s Sydney summer, and it’s sunny but overcast as well. It’s been a week of rain in this el Nina summer we’re enjoying – more rain than we know what to do with in what’s normally a dry, dusty, drought-stricken country.
First COVID lockdown for the city, just in time for Christmas. I’m really not surprised by the pig flying past anymore. I’m going to sit back down and work on this writing prompt.
SHIT. There’s another one – I’m sure of it. I only saw it streak past, but I’m sure it was a pink piggy flying. I’m going to move the laptop so that I’m facing the window. And I’ll test my typing skills to see if I can type intelligently while my eyes are peeled, watching the window.
Nope, nothing. And I’ve stopped typing, too. Waiting. Maybe I should go outside and look in the direction they seem to be coming from? I’m hastily pouring boiling water in my tea cup – at the kitchen window now. SHIT. There’s another one. Milk in the tea, tea bag in the bin and I’m off, trying not to spill my tea as I jog outside, down to the clothes line. I think the piggies are coming from over here?
I look over the fence into the neighbour’s yard. Nothing there… that I can see. The bastard won’t cut his fucking bamboo no matter how many times I and other neighbours ask him. His bamboo blocks our view down to the bay. He’s a miserable person. Up and down the street, people just refer to him as “dickhead” and everyone knows that means him at number 10X.
I go back upstairs to the balcony. I wish I had binoculars – maybe the pigs are coming up from the bay? There are a LOT of large yachts on the bay. Is it one of them that has the winged pigs and they’re escaping?
Now that I’m standing here with my cup of tea and looking for flying pigs, I don’t see a single one of them. And I’m not writing. Again. For a change. Anything to STOP or just not write. Really.