There is a turkey over yonder making a racket.
Time travelling back to my girlhood in South India:
My sister and I would frequently round the corner of our bungalow while our dinner’s head was being chopped off. We would look at each other, hot foot it away, and try to smoothe our own feathers.
Hours later, seated around the dinner table, grace was said, plates served with care, jovial chatting and no forks being lifted by the two of us.
“Girls! Your food will get cold!”
“I’m not hungry”.
“Neither am I”.
And so now?
RUN, TURKEY! RUN!