Henry Shires @ Bay – First World (Chicken) Wars

By  |  0 Comments

We are currently engaged in a chicken “(free) range war” with one of our neighbours (and one of my wife’s ex best friends) that makes the cattle wars of the wild west look like a proverbial picnic in the St Kilda Botanical Gardens.

While “The Russians” down the road from us are fighting a bitter icy war on all fronts with all their neighbours including our own chicken lady that makes the Cold War look like one of our current idyllic autumn days, by comparison.

Another of our – very lovely – neighbours appeared at least to be miffed with me because my wife and I pronounced his name just slightly incorrectly.

While my previous long time next door neighbour in London’s Notting Hill, once invited me into his flat to fire a blank round from his illicit “weekend warriors” Terrortorial Army revolver in my ear to warn me off from complaining to the Council’s Noise Nuisance Department about his crazily loud music – Which even brought my hard-as-an-Eastend-of-London hardman psychologist sister to tears, when she stayed with me. For only one week.

How can one fellow be so unlucky you might generously ask? Or perhaps you believe that all of this suffering is a result of me having been incarnated Pol Pot in a previous life. Or perhaps you believe in a vindictive or at the very least entirely unjust god.

I certainly don’t.

For I am afraid, good friends, as some of the more Miss Marplesque among you may have already begun to surmise, that I am “The Murderer” as well as being “The Detective” and “The Victim”, or didn’t you see that incredible plot twist coming?

I was the only person present at the scene of all these incidents, and I therefore surmise that it is something about me that adds at least one of the two “t’s” to the highly incendiary T.N.T that all of these situations have become.

And the motivation for all these, if not exactly evil, then certainly highly detrimental to all concerned behaviours.

To discover that I will have to hereby seek your permission to exhume the memory of the late great Professor George Shires.

A giant of a man; literally at 6ft 2ins in Britain in the 1960’s, and metaphorically. A Renaissance man; successful scientist and artist alike. And a more self-actualising and self-propelling fellow (a doted on only child) you were never likely to have met. But also an egotist with the self-professed temper of a “Beserker” Viking.

Though certainly not actually abused by my dad, though my sister was chased around the garden and clouted on the leg by him with a fairly thick length of ship’s rope (something that, even as a psychologist, she has subsequently, apparently supressed), I felt – and that is always what ultimately counts – oppressed and depressed by his sometimes explicit but often just implicit threat of greater physical power.

And it was then that the childhood Henry first vowed to always stand up to bullying and injustice to himself or others. Whenever and wherever it occurred, at whatever the cost!

The impact of which, due to the misplaced or misjudged nature of many of my resulting actions and outbursts, has quite possibly cost me a healthy heart and several otherwise perfectly good friendships, and the previously aforementioned good neighbourly relationships.

I am not quite sure what the moral of the story is, but I think that it is to check very carefully who you are actually reacting to in your everyday dealings with others. Because you may find that you have actually been responding to a, long dead, ghost.

Find us on FacebookFind us on FacebookFind us on FacebookFind us on Facebook