a bird in the hand

Today my mate Gerry and I took six (and a half!) year old Erin for a ferry trip to the beautiful souding Cockatoo Island - an island (but you'd already guessed that, right) just outside Sydney harbour.
So, onto the exciting ferry we hop and 20 minutes later we do indeed arrive on an island.
Now, it being Easter and all we were slightly apprehensive about the trip as the transport timetables were gappy and the next ferry was two and half hours after ours and we knew from the good old internet that C.I. is a mere 500metres long.
But it's got a campsite on it so how bad can it be? Well, let's just say quite bad. In fact, let's just say that if they'd called it 'Bugger All to Do and Loads of Random Cranes Island' it might have been less of a trades description violation.
The island was originally a penal colony (as everything here in Oz seems to have been thanks to us) before being converted into a ship yard. It must have been quite grim. (must have been? like it's changed). Remnants of its building past remain - hence all those cranes, along with lots of rickety old outhouses, the odd barracks and, weirdly, a tennis court, which I suspect wasn't there when the Pomms were over serving time for nicking a handkerchief. 20 years hard tennis doesn't sound right somehow.
There is, as I say, a campsite too. Even this had a military feel to it - the tiny tents were all lined out on a grid and terribly close together. The shower block was nice though.
So, after 35 minutes we'd seen everything there was to see and done everything there was to do. Twice. And still a two hour wait for the next ferry. But no. Behold, a boat! Luckily Gerry had misread the timetable and we were saved. In no time at all we were back on dry land and ready for our next adventure.
Which was a walk round the Botanical Gardens. Which are a total delight and could, coincidentally have been called 'Lots of Cockatoos Gardens', for no sooner were we through the gates than we found a tree full of the yellow crested beasties. I am still blown away by the fact that flocks of bright green parrots hang out in my back garden, that ibises walk nonchalently down the street and that the parks are full of cockatoos.
'Please can we feed them,' says Erin. And, because we have not yet seen the sign that says PLEASE do NOT feed the birds, it makes them aggressive and dependent on humans' I say, 'why of course we can, little innocent one, have some of this bread that I have bought, thinking that Cockatoo Island may actually be home to some hungry nature.'
To cut a long story short, Erin was soon channelling the spirit of Tippie Hedron as we were divebombed by some rather scary cockatoos. Erin, quite sensibly ran off screaming 'I don't like them', while I fended them off with morsels of mouldy bread.
Our next brush with nature was to watch the flying foxes waking up in the trees. They always sound like they are having a row: 'I'm trying to sleep, get out of my face', 'it's your turn to hoover' type thing.
We then try and explain to Erin why the flying foxes and indeed all other bats sleep during the day and go out to feed at night. This caused Gerry to remember the time, shortly after arriving in Sydney, she went to a bat sanctuary and breast fed an orphaned baby!
How we laughed. I was mildly disappointed when she corrected herself to bottle fed.