“Never count your chickens…”
I’d never really pondered the expression before, but in the space of two minutes on Monday morning, the significance of the expression became abundantly clear.
First of all the phone rings at the most inopportune time – Brian, the neighbour across the back fence, wanting to chat, just as Angel Cabrera is standing over his approach shot at 18, needing a minor miracle to send the Masters into a playoff. Seriously, Brian – why now?
“You might want to count your chickens,” he said, apologetically. “I fear you might be one short,” tapping his shoulder like a cricket umpire. “The white one was in our backyard. Unfortunately Zoomba got her.” Ouch. Zoomba, three parts dog, one part horse – poor Snowie was never going to win that one. I thanked Brian for his honesty, made the necessary funeral arrangements, and rushed back inside just in time to see Angel can a ridiculously short birdie putt to send the Masters into a play-off. [Read more…]