Lucky Day

Firstly, a big Malarkey welcome to new a new visitor to the Manor - Staci! Thank you for hopping on board and I hope you enjoy the atmosphere.

Secondly, I've just had a book clear out (only a minor amount of sobbing on the stairs, clutching precious tomes to my chest before consigning them to the box-to-take-to-the-charity-shop), thus a message for Cousin Richard - the whole range of Philippa Gregory(one careful lady owner) if you want them. Let me know. Perhaps Auntie P can pick them up in her (dented!!!!!!) car on Wednesday????

Thirdly, Mrs Miggins has ONE tail feather left. She looks like an idiot.

'I do not!' says Mrs Miggins. 'I look like Minnie-Haha. I look like a coquettish squaw with a cute feather in her head-band, standing on the banks of the Shenandoah River waiting for Hiawatha to come along in his bear-skin.'
'Who's coming along with a bare skin?' says Mrs Slocombe (who laid an egg yesterday after a good 2 months lay-off). 'Not Tango Pete, I hope. I've only just had my porridge.'
'A b-e-a-r skin,' says Mrs Miggins. 'From a b-e-a-r.'
'Are you sure it's M-i-n-n-i-e, and not m-i-n-i as in car?' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey has heard of my plans to construct a chicken winter gazebo from Wilkos plain shower curtains. She is not, as Malarkey follower Di predicted, happy with the 'plain' aspect. She wants either a) giant pink gerberas b) giant yellow daisies or c) Rennie Macintosh roses.
'If it was m-i-n-i,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'she would be Mini-car-car!!'

And Misses Pumphrey and Slocombe fall about laughing at the expense of poor, semi-naked Miggins.
'Come into the kitchen, Mrs M,' I say. 'And I'll measure you up for a long cardi.'
'Could I possibly have a liberty bodice, too?' says Miggins. 'Only as I get older, things seem to be heading south a bit too readily. As you know from your own experiences, of course.'

I am not offended. Us birds of a certain age with dubious egg production must stick together.

And fourthly, today is the 10th of the 10th of the 10th. Which is supposed to be very lucky.

Here are the lucky things that have happened so far today.
1) The chickens got to have free-range of the garden, now all edible produce has been harvested.
2) Andy climbed a ladder and changed three light bulbs without falling off.
3) There isn't a 3.

That's it. I suppose it's only Archer's Omnibus time, so plenty of the day left for more lucky happenings. But it got me wondering. Does luck just happen or, as many people believe, do you have to make it happen? I know that sitting in a chair staring at TV makes nothing happen except eye strain, brain muffling and constipation. But does going out and doing stuff, or taking risks actually perpetuate 'luck.'

Some people don't believe in luck. I do.

'So do I,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Listen...luck, luck, luck, kcluckluckluck..cluck, cluck,cluck...ouch!'
'Well, stand still then,' I say. 'I can't possibly measure you for a liberty bodice if you keep fidgeting like that. You know what they - many a slip twixt pin and chick.'
'Do they say that?' says Miggins.
'Well, I say that,' I say.

It is also Old Michaelmas Day. Yesterday, the Michaelmas daisies in the garden bloomed. How's that for timing? Or was it just luck? It is also St Paulinus of York's Day. Apparently, St Paulinus was riding his ass (like you do) across Lincolnshire, when he realised his ass was hungry. He spotted a farmer with a full sack of grain.
'Mayst I have a handful of lovely grain from your very full grain sack for my hungry ass?' asked St Paulinus of the Farmer. (I'm paraphrasing here.)
'Sack?' said the Farmer. 'This isn't a sack. It's a stone.'

This was because the Farmer was a) a meany and b) a smug git who was much too happy with his ample grain store c) possibly mad for thinking he could mess with a saint.

'A stone?' said St Paulinus. 'Then a stone it shall be!'

And he turned the grain sack into a stone, because saints can perform pointless miracles like that.

Unlucky for the farmer. Or was it stupidity. Or meanness?

Unlucky for the ass because he was still hungry.

'Why does no-one ever think of the ass?' says Miggins. 'That's what I want to know.'

Anyway, the Sack Stone still stands in the middle of a field in Lincolnshire. Attempts to move it have resulted in either death for the movee, or global disaster, like the onset of World War One.

You see? You try and generate a bit of luck for your ass, and this happens.

But ever the optimist, I wish you your own spot of luck on this, a lucky day.

Bits and Pieces

Today, we added a super to the hive. After a week of hot weather, where the bees have been busy from six in the morning to gone nine at night, I had my suspicions that when we did our hive inspection today, we would find the brood box full to bursting and indeed we did!

From 10,000 bees four weeks ago, I reckon we are nearly up to complete capacity, nearing 40-50,000 bees. So we added a super and will be agog with anticipation until next weekend when we can have a peep at how productive the ladies have been with the super. They are certainly working very hard indeed. Oh, and we saw a baby bee being born today, which is just the most exciting thing and weirdly cute, too.

On another stingy insect note, Pandora and Phoebe both managed to get stung by the same wasp this afternoon. I was in the garden hanging out washing, when I heard a nasty buzzing. I thought, hang on, that can't be a Malarkey bee pestering me, surely? I'm far away from their hive, and even in this heat they are being remarkably placid - we managed to do the hive inspection sans smoker today, which is just as well because it went out within 5 minutes of being lit. The buzzing didn't stop, so I thought I'd step inside a while until the wasp, for that's what it was, buzzed off.

Unfortunately, said wasp persisted in following me into the house, then out of the house, then back into the house as I leapt in and out of the back door like a loon trying to maintain an air of calm so as to avoid being stung. And even more unfortunately, Pandora decided to help by pouncing on the wasp, catching it between her paws where it promptly stung her on her kitten cheek. And then, as she rushed off not quite knowing what to do with herself, Phoebe wandered into the fray and got stung on the paw. Tybalt came to have a go, too, but lucky for him he isn't hard enough. By now, my inner calm had given way to outer shrieking which brought Leane and Kayleigh, who were visiting, into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about.

'Into my writing room,' I yelled, which is where all the cats had dashed towards in varying amounts of pain, and I bundled them both, and me, into safety, slamming the door behind us and leaving Andy in the kitchen to deal with the intruder.

There was a bit of shouting, and then the shouting stopped so I opened the door a crack.
'Has it gone?' I called.
'No!' Andy resumed the shouting. I felt I ought to go and assist so I dashed through the door and between us, we managed to manouevre the wasp behind the kitchen blind and out of the window.

Phew! Andy then had to nip to his surgery to get some medication for Pandora and Phoebe, and my dislike of wasps grew even more, because now I am fretting there is a renegade mob of them holding out in a nest somewhere waiting to rob the Malarkey bees of their honey stores in the Autumn.

But I shall be there, ready to defend our bees in whatever way I can. Although I suspect the cats will be way, way behind me.

Meanwhile, beans and tomatoes are growing flowers, as are the potatoes. I think we'll be having a lettuce glut in a couple of weeks' time. And Mrs Slocombe's lady-bits are now where they should be and she's been welcomed back into the flock by Mrs Pumphrey towering over her, wings akimbo, and saying, 'Just watch it, you!'

On the 'Denise's New Career Plan' front, I have purchased two pairs of uniform trousers (wide leg linen jobbies to allow for comfort and felxibility), and three relaxation CDs. I listened to one of them this morning, and it went okay until someone started singing, or rather chanting in a 'umm, diddle, ummmmmmm, ummmmm,' way. Which I wasn't keen on, because personally, if I was having an aromatherapy massage, or reflexology treatment, any ummmm diddle umming would tick me off something chronic. I hope the other two CDs prove devoid of the human voice.

I have been reading a 'How to Set Up An Holistic Therapy Business' book, which is fascinating, exciting and a little bit scary. I have found three courses to sign up to, and it seems I can register with the Federation of Holistic Therapists because of the qualifications I have already.

And now I am trying to think of a name for my business. I have three so far - The Poppy Field, Forget-Me-Not and Daisy Daisy. There's a bit of theme happening here vis a vis one of my favourite things of all time (flowers, people; come on keep up!), but I'll bide a while for some divine inspiration before I get the business cards and leaflets printed.

Busy weekend so far. Hope yours is busy too, in the most satisfying, productive and non-waspy knid of way.

Chicken's Bottoms

Mrs Slocombe has been confined in a solitary way to the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace (The Garden Room aka the revamped bunny hutch) because she has what Mrs Miggins had last year, which is a bit of a prolapse of her lady-bits.

Luckily, her lady-bits problem isn't as severe as was Mrs Miggins', which, as you know, required the donning of the latex glove and the sticking of the finger where, quite frankly, a human being shouldn't have to stick a finger, ever.

'You should have been on the other end,' says Miggins.
'I think not,' says I.

Anyway, having cleaned up and sorted out Mrs S on the Sunday, when I thought with a sinking heart, 'Oh, oh, here we go again,' we thought it best to keep her separate from Miggo and Pumphrey, especially as the sight of a bit of fresh blood brought out the vampire in Pumphrey. So Mrs Slocombe has been recouperating in her own accommodation, and her lady-bits have shown a gradual but pleasing improvement.

'How is Mrs Slocombe today?' Andy asks each morning, as 'tis me who goes out on chicken duties first thing.
'She savaged me,' I say.
'Ah, good,' says the Vet.
'Not for me,' I say. But I've got used to chickens and their excitable breakfast beaks of a morning. And as long as Mrs Slocombe is being over-enthusiastic with the pecking, it means she's not on death's door.

Today, I get home and pop into the garden to do a livestock check aka chat to a chicken and admire the bees. I take out some apple for my girls; Mrs Slocombe is nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, I think I am going to find a deceased chicken, feet up to heaven at the back of the garden.

But no! Mrs Slocombe is on the job, so to speak. She's in the bunny hutch and she gives me a bit of a look when I open the door. She bucks the advice of the hen keeping books which states that hens lay their eggs before 11 a.m. 95% of Mrs Slocombe's eggs are laid in the afternoon. I put this down to her being mad.

'I've brought you some apple,' I say.
'Leave it there,' says Slocombe. 'I'll eat it whilst I'm waiting for the egg to pop.'
'Won't it give you hiccups?' I say. I mean, I know what happens to me when I bolt down a peanut butter and cucumber wrap whilst running around trying to write a cohesive lesson objective on the whiteboard for the Year 8's.
'Possibly,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'But you won't mind a figure-of-eight egg, will you?'
'Oh no,' I say. 'I'm just glad you are feeling better.'
'Did I say I was feeling better?' says Slocombe. 'Just because I am wolfing down this apple, doesn't mean I am feeling better.'
'Right,' I say. I take this as my queue to leave her to it.

So there you go. More chicken angst. But that's what happens when you are responsible for animals. If it's not the cats, it's the chickens and if it's not the chickens, it's the bees.

Except the bees are still being very good at the mo. And I'm guessing by the activity on the front of the hive today that we have a darn sight more bees than the 10,000 we started off with three weeks ago. Queen Mildred has been very busy.

And heaven help me if SHE ever gets a problem with her lady-bits.

Lucky Stars?

Now here's a funny thing. You know how spontaneous acts of luck rarely pass my way? I'm not complaining, you understand, because I know how fortunate my life is in many, many other ways - I am blessed with a happy, healthy family, a nice home, a job, a good brain and the capacity to enjoy my life in lots of fulfilling ways. (And chickens, says Mrs Miggins. Don't forget the chickens. As if, I say.) No, I'm talking about little spots of unexpected good fortune. Like finding a five pound note on the pavement. And then finding ANOTHER five pound note the next day on a different pavement. And then being gifted a huge sack of onions by a kindly neighbour.

You may have gathered that these three spots of fortune have all happened to me in the last 24 hours. Yesterday, on my walk home from work, I found a fiver. No-one around, looking like they were searching for a lost fiver. And then, this morning, when Andy and I were on a first thing in the morning dash to town to run some errands, I found another fiver on the pavement, again with no-one else in sight.

And then, on popping out to the recycle bin with some recyclables just after lunch, our neighbour across the road dashed over and said, 'Do you use onions? Only I've got two sacks and we'll never get through them all.' So, because I do use a lot of onions, especially now we are being vegetarian, I accepted the gift with a grateful smile.

I can't help thinking how odd is this sequence of events? There must be a reason for it. The only thing I can think is that I've been given the title of an international best seller - 'Two Lost Fivers and a Sack of Spare Onions.' So if I do NaNoWriMo again this year, that's the title sorted.

Anyway, the rest of the morning has been filled with running errands and buying bee-suits and cot beds.

Here is me in my bee suit. It's very comfy. Light-weight, many pockets, many zips, much velcro. I did start to write this blog whilst wearing my bee suit, but the gloves kept getting in the way of the keyboard. We've had to order Andy's bee suit as his size was out of stock. Norman of the bee farm phoned to say that Andy's suit would be three weeks in arriving. 'That's okay,' I said. 'We're not collecting our bees until the end of this month, so we've got a few weeks to spare. And I've got my bee suit, so I can always wade in as the Lone Bee Keeper, and Andy can watch from the safety of the kitchen window.'

'Or he can just run very fast,' said Norman. And we had a bit of a fellow beekeeper jolly laugh moment.
And after the purchase of bee suit and bee gloves, we zipped across the countryside to the retail park and Grandad Andy bought Baby Kayleigh a cot bed. It's a very nice cot bed a la sleigh bed style. And after it has been used as a cot, then a junior bed, it can be converted into a little sofa! With underneath storage space. AND the brochure declared it to be 'a lovely piece of furniture that will become an heirloom for generations to come.' So I suspect, that once I start shrinking in height (as ladies are wont to do when they grow more aged) the cot bed will come back my way for use in my dotage when my children consign me to a shed at the bottom of the garden. Good job we got a foam mattress, then. I understand they are easy to wash.

Now I was under the impression that this here cot bed would need to be ordered for home delivery a couple of weeks later, given that it is a hefty piece of furniture. But no. Andy paid, and the cashier said, 'Just wait over there and the cot and mattress will be brought out for you.' Andy said, 'I'd better go and rearrange the car then,' on account of the fact that not only had we been and bought a bee suit and gloves, we had also done a dash around Wilkos for a bag of bits and bobs and another dash round Sainsbugs for four more bags of bits and bobs, and Andy had done a dash around Pets at Home for cat litter the day before, sacks of which were still in the car and therefore space was at a premium.

The cot and mattress were huge. But we got them in the car, along with all the other stuff we'd amassed. Hurrah for the people carrier, I thought as we trundled home. And the cot and mattress are even larger now they are stacked in our hallway, preventing access to the stairs.

So there we are. Another busy Saturday morning. This afternoon Andy is out in the garden putting the finishing touches to the newly revised Cluckinghen Palace penthouse suite, I am faffing around in a bee suit but I shall be making jammy flapjacks any moment now. The chickens are still arguing about the whole ladder leading up to their pod thing. But I reckon they'll be okay when they feel the blunt end of my welly boot nudging up their derriere.

Poultry News

News from Cluckinghen Palace - Mrs Pumphrey is on the job again. No, not that one (minds out of the gutter, please) - the other one. The one involving laying eggs. For two days on the trot we have been back to 3-eggs-a-day production. The girls are on top form. And given that Mrs Miggins is now in her third season, I think that is pretty good going.

'I am great chicken,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Indeed you are,' I say.
'One day there will be a statue erected in my honour,' says Miggins.
'No doubt,' says I. And I am in no doubt because Mrs M has already furnished me with the plans and instructions, and the threat that if I don't see to the aforesaid monument immediately after her demise she'll be back to haunt me.
'It's a particularly fine statue, don't you think?' says Miggins. 'I especially like the fact it is of me perched on a hugh pile of eggs and wearing my best Dame Edna spectacles.'

So here we are, chicken keepers of nearly two years now. I have decided that keeping chickens is one of my favourite things. Even the part that involves winter morning forays into the garden in jim-jams and wellies to carry out chicken breakfast duties. Because when the girls come hippity-hopping from their pod and gather round me for a double handed feeding session, it means my cold hands are smothered by three feather duvets, all warm from a night's toasting.

'I'd like to have a go at hatching my own eggs,' I say to Andy, only today.
'I'm not sure that's possible,' says Andy, 'what with you being human and all.'
'You know what I mean,' I say, and give him a playful shove.

I wait whilst he retrieves himself from the floor.

'And quail,' I say.
'What do you think I'm doing down here,' says Andy.
'Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!' I say.

(Andy assures me this joke works - at least, he says he gets it. And he didn't have to think about it first.)

But seriously, I would like to have a go at hatching some chicks. I've done some preliminary investigations of incubators, which seem hugely expensive especially as I've got three potential incubators outside. Well, two really. I'm not sure I would trust Mrs Slocombe to be a steady broody hen. But Miggins had a broody patch last year, and I think Mrs Pumphrey would make a fine mother hen.

And I've also been investigating quail. They need investigating; shifty little characters it seems. Some reports suggest they are vicious blighters, other suggest they are endearing little birds who sing a pretty song. But, like bees, I find them strangely fascinating. But you do need four of their eggs to make a decent boiled egg breakfast. And teeny tiny toast soldiers for the dipping.

But if I am going to head into the realms of poultry rearing I need more space. And just yet I don't see how that is going to happen.

However, our continued quest for self-sufficiency takes another step forward in three and a half weeks' time when we go on the bee-keeping course. I hope it goes well. I'm really very keen to be a bee-keeper. And apparently baby quail chicks look like bumblebees. So if we end up getting bees, and the quail have to wait until our small holding introduces itself into our lives, then what I could do is look at some bees through a telescope and pretend they are quail.

It might just work.