Sunday, 21 October 2012

Watching them, watching us, watching them

'They're watching us again,' says Daisy. 'And my pants are being buffeted by the wind.'
'My fault I'm afraid,' says Primrose. She has secreted her laptop inside the chicken feeder because from the kitchen window it looks like she is eating when she is, in fact, typing away on her Hen-pad, writing the outline to her next best-selling novel.
'Why for your fault?' says Daisy.
'Well,' says Primrose, 'for a start, when I put in for this writing retreat holiday, I distinctly remember asking for a country Manor location in sunny climes. Wind was most certainly not on the agenda.'

Daisy turns so she is standing down from the stiff north-westerly that is currently beating the garden into leaf drop submission. 'I suppose,' she says, 'I could put up the windbreak.'

'You could,' says Primrose.

'What ARE they doing?' says Daisy.

'Who?' says Primrose.

'Them,' says Daisy. 'So far today they have thrown oddments of food at us, covered this run with a dodgy looking piece of corrugated Perspex sheeting and squatted in the mud at various intervals clucking at us in a language I've never heard of. No idea what they're saying, have you?'

'I think it's some sort of pidgin English,' says Primrose.

'Well that's no good, is it?' says Daisy. ' Coz we're chickens, not pigeons.'

'They're just trying to be friendly,' says Primrose. 'You know, like giving us a variety of food, making sure we're warm and dry.'

'Ha!' says Daisy. 'You'll be telling me they've given us names next.'

'They have,' says Primrose. 'I'm Primrose and you are Daisy.'

'Ridiculous!' says Daisy.

'What are they thinking?' I say to Andy, staring into the soggy back garden at the hens. Andy is making another batch of sour dough bread. He is determined to perfect the art of using a sour dough starter, and there is much huffing, puffing and pummelling going on.

'I think they are thinking they have found a jolly nice place to live,' says Andy.

'Primrose looks like she is using a laptop behind the feeder,' I say, as Primrose's head bobs up and looks around like a startled meerkat for the umpteenth time, much like I do when I am in the middle of an in depth writing session.

'P'raps they're getting fed up with eating layers' mash,' says Andy. 'Shall I throw a few grapes at them?'

'They'd like that, ' I say. 'Especially Daisy.'



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