Name Games

All our previous hens have arrived with names. We knew they were arriving and so we had time to muck about thinking of what they should be called.

But Primrose (the little ginger girl) and Daisy (the larger white lass) arrived sans les nomes, because I didn't know they were on their way and Andy isn't really bothered about names for animals, and if he was he'd probably call them something totally unsuitable like 'Spud Head' or 'Nobby.'

No, it takes a woman's touch to come up with the right names, because we are sensitive to character and personality, and we're usually the ones who stand at the back door shouting into the garden and need to chose something that is a) unembarrassing and b) pronounceable after a glass of wine or two. Not that I drink. But I might be driven to it by Christmas.

And so the new girls went to bed that first night, nameless, and I went to bed thinking of what to call them, which was very soothing because usually I go to bed fretting about what the next day at school will bring.

I like to name animals after characters who mean something to me, ergo Tybalt is Tybalt because I love Shakespeare, and Pandora is Pandora after Adrian Mole's infinitely marvellous love interest in The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole (and not because I like boxes with surprises in them unless the surprise is a kitten or a chick, and it is an especially nice box.)

And the previous hens were all named after female characters from favourite sitcoms, and so it was this tack I began with.

'Hyacinth' and 'Audrey' were the first choices, after Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances and Audrey Fforbes-Hamilton from To The Manor Born. And from the same sitcom, Marjorie.

Nope. They didn't seem right. A bit too 'bossy.' And these hens didn't seem the bossy types.

So I looked at literary heroines. One of my favourite authors is Stella Gibbons. I could almost hear the hens saying, 'We are NOT going to be called 'Stella' and 'Gibbon'.'

'What about Flora and Mybug?' I imaginarily said.

'Mybug?'

'Yes,' I said, continuing the imaginary conversation. 'From Cold Comfort Farm.'

'I don't mind being called Flora,' they said back in imaginary unison. 'But Mybug???'

'Feckless and Careless,' I said. 'After the cows?'

'NO!'

I flirted briefly with Enid (Blyton) and Beatrix (Potter) and whilst both of them looked like an Enid, neither looked like a Beatrix. And then Margaret/ Maggie (Thatcher) but there was no way Andy would tolerate that, plus there are no other female politicians I have a high enough regard for to name one of my hens in their honour.

And so I went to sleep...

...and as soon as I woke up, it came through very clearly. They were Primrose and Daisy.

So I didn't name them. The Patron Saint of Hens (St Bokkity-Bok-Bok) did. I didn't tell Andy straight away. I had to let the names sit with me for a while.Just to make sure.

But I texted him when I got to school. 'Primrose and Daisy say they think they will enjoy living at MMM very much,' I wrote.

'Did they text and tell you?' texted Andy back.

'No,' I said. 'They Skyped. Live news link straight from the pod.'

'These youngsters and their technology,' texted Andy.