Sunday, 30 November 2008

The sign of an unsettled mind

I am sure I read somewhere in one of the many chicken books we have that chickens don't like getting wet. Well, whoever wrote that was WRONG! At least as far as Mrs Slocombe is concerned. Fom Thursday to yesterday it rained almost constantly and Mrs Slocombe spent most of the daylight hours running about in it getting wetter and wetter. Mind you, with her feathers plastered against her body you can truly appreciate what fine muscle structure she has in her shoulders.
'Go inside!' I yell from the back door. 'Or at least under the tree or the garden table where the infinitely more sensible hens are hanging out.'
'I'm Gene Kelly!' shouts Mrs Slocombe.

I give up. I'm not going to enter into any sort of chicken zen conversation with her involving Gene Kelly.

Such was the weather and me being carless and allergic to public transport and so ultimately housebound I decided to change the layout of the furniture in the bedroom. I did various 'lying on the bed stretches' with my arms spread out and toes extended, then replicated these measurements whilst lying on the carpet in order to ascertain whether the bed could face in a different direction and, deciding that it could and and I would be able to move the sofa over there, the big chest of drawers there and the two smaller sets of drawers there and there, I set about my rearrangement.

Well. There comes a point in any grand plan where you wish you hadn't started. I reached this point when I realised I'd managed to trap myself inside the bedroom with little hope of escape other than leaping from the bedroom window and breaking my legs on the path outside. The bed was at diagonals and wedged between the wardrobes and radiator, the sofa was on its end blocking the door after my failure to shift it through the door and onto the landing. All chests had been divested of their drawers which were now scattered throughout the room in no particular order and in amongst it all sat the Dyson which I had been using to clean the carpet and skirting boards as I went of God knows how many years worth of dust bunnies. Luckily I had also had a tin of proper paraffin based furniture polish with me (ask my family - they will tell you about me and firelighters) so I sat on the floor, had a few sniffs and decided that if I had to exit the room by the window at least now I'd be able to fly to the ground.

All turned out well in the end. By a gradual process of moving each item of furniture three inches at a time I managed to rotate everything around itself and settle it into its new home. I worked up a good sweat which justified me having two shortbread fingers with my well-deserved cuppa. And I can still just about get into my wardrobe.

And even if I couldn't there was no way I was putting anything back to its original position.

They say that moving furniture is the sign of an unsettled mind. I should say so.

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