Penthouse Chickens

The eucalyptus is now gone. It is an ex-eucalyptus. All that remains is a stump around eighteen inches high and a foot wide. Heather reported that the tree surgeons took approximately 45 minutes to do the job, and there was much flinging of branches and dangerous swiping of chainsaws.

But now, light floods the garden, and the fear of the roof being dented by falling branches is gone.

On his arrival home, Andy perused the stump. 'I reckon we could put the Eglu on top of that,' he said.

I had visions of wobbliness on a grand scale.

'Hmmmm,' I said.

'No,' said Andy, sensing a tremour of doubt in my voice. 'If I build a frame to encompass the base of the Eglu, we could raise it off the ground and they could have a ladder to climb up at night.'

I was slightly comforted by the word 'encompass.'
'Like a penthouse?' I said.
'Exactly!' said Andy.
'Who's having a penthouse?' said Mrs Miggins.
'You are,' I said. 'Andy is going to build a frame and put the pod on top of the eucalyptus stump.'
'Oh, he is, is he?' said Mrs Miggins. She is not as easily convinced by words like 'encompass' as I am. 'And what does he think, exactly, is going to happen when the things that go bump in the night start?'
'The what?' said I.
'The things that go bump in the night,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Or, to be more precise, the things that go kerwhallop in the night. We need to be on solid ground when the kerwhalloping starts, I can tell you.'
'I have no idea to what you are alluding,' I said, making the effort not to end the sentence with a preposition,
'I don't suppose you do,' said Miggins. 'Because chickens are mysterious creatures and humans will never fully understand the enigmatic and myraid facets of their personalities.'

There is a bit of a silence.

'So what is the kerwhallop in the middle of the night?' I said.
'Mrs Pumphrey falling out of her bunk,' said Mrs Miggins.
'Mrs Pumphrey has a bunk?' I said. 'I rather thought Mrs Pumphrey would have a four poster with full curtainage and a floral bolster.'
'Oh, she does,' said Mrs Miggins. 'It's a four poster bunk. Because of the spiders.'
'But Mrs Pumphrey loves spiders,' I said. 'Especially in pate with crudites.'
'Yes,' said Mrs Miggins. 'But she doesn't want them crawling over her face in the middle of the night, does she?'

She didn't actually say the words 'you moron', but the implication was there.

'Well,' I said, 'if Andy builds a penthouse for you, there will be even less risk of spiders because you'll be way up high.'
'What pie?' said Mrs Slocombe. She was wearing a lumber jacket and pair of climbing boots. A shred of sawdust was nestled in her comb.
'Did you get up in the tree with the tree surgeons?' I said, severely.
'No,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Where's the pie?'
'What pie?' I said.
'You said you were weighing pie,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'I think you'll find your hearing has been affected by chainsaw noise,' I said. 'There is no pie.'
'Well, that's a disappointment,' said Mrs Slocombe.

Life is like that, I thought, heading back to the house, to enjoy the massive flood of light in the kitchen. Sometimes you want pie, sometimes you end up with a bit of dried bread.

I have no idea why I said that. Philosophy? Or perhaps the result of another long day at work trying to teach a bunch of children with no voice. (Me, not them. A bunch of children with no voices? Aah, a bliss to great to contemplate...)

Quiet at the Back

I have lost my voice. This, some might say (especially horrid school children), is a good thing. No more ranting, no more bossy-booting, no more dodgy singing in the kitchen at 6 in the morning.

I have no idea why my voice has gone. This is the second time in 4 months it has happened; I'm thinking, perhaps I ought to go to the doctor and get him to check out my nodes in case I have some horrid, incurable disease. Of course, I know deep down that I DON'T have some horrid, incurable disease, but I'm having one of my hyponchondriac weeks where every little thing is pointing to having a horrid, incurable disease of some description.

It started on Sunday. I was able to talk at bee-keeping, and I was okay for the rest of the day. I was okay when I went to work on Monday, although I was feeling a bit scratchy-throated. And then Monday evening I was coughing like a dog with kennel cough. And then a sort of cold arrived, which didn't really feel like a proper cold, so this morning when I got up, I was in come-and-go squeaky squeaky mode. And now, after a day of trying to teach, I have come home voiceless.

The children at school thought my voice-come-voice-go efforts were hilarious. There was very little evidence of sympathy for my plight which confused me as when I did a course on human development a few years ago, I was under the impression that skills in sympathy developed in children at around eight years old and the children I taught today were at least three years older than that, some of them eight years older. And the course also said that if chicldren don't develop the ability to sympathise at eight years old, then they are lost forever and will likely become sociopathic nutcases who pull the wings off butterflies and laugh whilst they kick defenceless puppies into ponds.

So there's no hope for the youth round our way then.

My dilemma is, do I go into work tomorrow? I feel fine. I am capable of doing all non-speaking related aspects of my work. But I have to speak when I teach, even if it's only to say 'Come in, sit down and get on with your independent exploration of the wonderful world of education and development of personalised learning skills,' as teaching is called these days. If I do that, it will end up with me staring at the students whilst they stare back because they are actually incapable of independent learning and really do want me to talk at them and impart my many, many words of educational wisdom.

Oh, what to do? One of my colleagues (the one who didn't find my non-voice hilarious) reckons I have 'tracheitis' - inflammation of the trachea. She recommended gargling with salt water, or vinegar, or lemon juice. Not molten chocolate, unfortunately.

And tomorrow is the big tree chop down day, when our eucalyptus will become no more and sunlight will once again flood our tiny patch of garden. So perhaps I ought to be home to supervise that, in case any chickens are concussed in the process. (I've already had to confiscate Mrs Slocombe's copy of 'The Lumberjack Song,' because she was getting over excited at the thought of shinning up a very large tree and christening her 'My Little Chopper' kit.)

We'll see. After all, I did manage to get up last night at one in the morning and summon enough voice to yell at four foxes who were having a screaming match in the middle of the main road just outside our bedroom window.

Have you ever heard foxes screaming at each other? It's a frightening sound.

But not as frightening as I shall sound when I am once more full-voiced and telling my students exactly what I think of their non-sympathetic, embryonic sociopathic ways.

New Best Writer

I have found a new best writer. You know how when I discover a writer I have to read EVERYTHING else they have written until I find a not so good apple in the barrell of their oeuvre? Well, last week, on holiday, I discovered Marina Lewycka. I have been aware of her as a writer ever since she claimed a best seller with a novel called 'A History of Tractors in the Ukraine' or some such title. (I ought to know because I've just ordered it from Amazon along with her second novel 'Two Fields' or something; again, I ought to know, but my memory is on shut down - it was first day back at school today after all.)

Anyway, the book I took on holiday was called, 'We Are All Made of Glue.' And this I remember for certain because it was a stonker of a read. I read it in under 24 hours, and finished just in time to join in with Andy, Richard and Sian in a drunken game of 'Who's in the Hat?' which I was best at because I was the only sober participant. It was one of those books that I'd put off reading for no other reason than it had 'glue' in the title; it had been sitting on my pile of books to read for AGES, sandwiched between a book on bees and a biography of Beatrix Potter. I flung it in the suitcase thinking I would have to read it as we'd be stuck in the middle of nowhere with little else to do. Once on hols I kicked off my reading with a book called 'Snobs' by Julian Fellowes, which was mildly entertaining in that it made me snort with amusement once. Then I skipped through an unknown chick-lit by an unknown writer which was banal in the extreme and made me snort with rage that SHE got published whereas I haven't (thus so far).

And so I made it to Marina's offering. Aah! Now THAT'S how to write! A plot just this side of the weirdo wall as to be believable, characters that were well-defined, colourful and sometimes fascinatingly disgusting. The narrative rolled along at just the right place. There was an ease of style that made writing look, well, so easy.

An all-round excellent read. I am a convert.

So I wait agog for my Amazon parcel, that should arrive in time for a weekend of decadent reading of a double dose of Marina Lewycka. In fact, I am going to have to plan the weekend very carefully. The allotment will need tending - the potatoes will probably need a first earthing up - and there is Part Three of Andy and Denise Go Bee-Keeping on Sunday. Also, I have a shed-load of summer bulbs to get into the ground and another shed-load of seeds to plant in the greenhouse which I STILL haven't cleaned out from last season.

PLUS I am on a mission to get us as close to being a vegetarian household as possible so need some time to experiment with recipes that will prevent Andy from feeling deprived of the eating of dead flesh. This is also on the back of last week's holiday when Andy and I had another of our 'we-need-to-be-more-healthy' anxiety moments. And the almost rescue of the little lost lamb.

It's good to find new things, try new things, learn new things. Marina Lewycka, vegetarianism, bee-keeping. They certainly keep one on one's toes.

Bee Brave, Queen Bee

Ooooh- hoooo! Part Two of the bee keeping course today, and, donning our bee-suits (low crotches are de rigeur this year), we tripped up the garden of Scott and Geraldine and into their seven hive apiary. Bee-veils veiled, zips zipped, velcro velcroed, trousers tucked in wellies, marigolds tucked into sleeves, we ventured forth looking like a couple of highly unfashionable spacemen.

Being beautifully sunny, it was an ideal morning to open a hive. Besides, Scott was at a highly tricky stage in his queen rearing and needed to get into a particular hive to set up some artificial queen cells.

'In we go!' he called cheerfully, puffing smoke hither and thither. The pitch of bee hum rose perceptibly, as the bees objected to the interference of their morning business. The hive that was opened was at around two thirds capacity i.e 40,000 bees. We were on a hunt for queen cells (or play cups), and the queen herself. This bit of bee-keeping is way beyond our current understanding, but we were able to identify drones, see some pheremone fanning, and watch the interaction between the bees as they came and went about their business. We also saw eggs in cells, larvae in cells and bees bottoms sticking out of cells as they did a bit of cleaning and polishing.

I had difficulties spotting the queen. I think it was the lack of tiara and ermine cloak that flummoxed me.
'There she is!' said Geraldine.
'Where?' I said.
'There!'

And yes, once she was pointed out to me, I could see she was bigger than the others and more pointy in the body. Andy was better at keeping an eye on her than me. Geraldine got distracted into dispatching a couple of wasps that had been attracted to the hive by the syrup feed. Us bee-keepers don't like wasps. Bees don't like wasps and will sting a waspy invader to death if one invades the hive. But a stinging bee is a dead bee, so we felt we'd saved a few bee lives by getting rid of the wasp ourselves. It's all part of the circle of life - wasp attacks bee, human interferes and wallops wasp in a terminal kind of way.

But the BEST bit was being amongst a colony of bees on the wing and not feeling the urge to run around flapping my arms screaming, 'THE BEES! THE BEES!!' I was so busy watching all that was going on that I felt totally unfazed by the whole experience. (This probably means I shall be stung many times in the not too distant future for feeling so cocky. Buzz comes before a sting, and all that.)

And then we went inside for tea and cake and a lesson in frame making, which I managed with the insertion of only one wonky nail. Luckily, there were two men at hand to take the frame from the useless female and bash out the wonky nail so she could bash in a new nail in EXACTLY the same position as the original.
'Ah well,' said Scott. 'The bees won't mind.'

Back home, we were met by one chicken with a glint in her eye and another up the far end of Cluckinghen Palace dressed as David Bowie and doing a dance to 'Ashes to Ashes' in celebration of the Icelandic volcano eruption (more of which tomorrow if I can remember the brilliant idea I had about it this morning.)

The chicken with the glint in her eye (Mrs Miggins) approached me.

'You know Mrs Pumphrey is running for Prime Minister?' she said.
'I do,' I said. 'Although I was quite disappointed that she didn't appear on the Leaders' Debate on Thursday.'
'Oh, she was there,' said Mrs Miggins. 'You just couldn't see her behind the podium.'
'Then how do I know she was REALLY there?' I said.
'Well, every time Gordon Brown smiled that weirdo smile...' began Mrs Miggins.
'Yes...' I said.
'...that was Mrs Pumphrey goosing him in the hustings,' said Mrs Miggins.
'That explains a lot,' I said.
'Anyway,' said Miggins. 'We've decided to call Mrs Pumphrey's party 'The Bustin' Tea Party.'
'Yes,' said Mrs Slocombe a.k.a David Bowie, 'coz we're gettin' down wiv da kidz, innit?'
'And lots of people are often busting for a cuppa, aren't they?' said Mrs Miggins.
'Amongst other things,' said I.
'Don't you think it has a nice ring to it?' said Mrs Slocombe.
'It has a certain je ne sais quoi,' I said. 'Where is Mrs P, anyway?'
'Recovering her beak after all that goosing,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Apparently, Mr Brown is made of rigid stuff.'
'Really?' I said.
'Like the Christmas carol,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'You know, 'Earth stood hard as iron, Gordon like a stone.'

And there, dear reader, we shall leave things.

It's probably for the best.

Even More - Here We Are!!

More of Andy and I have arrived home from holiday than went on holiday last week. I think this is because the primary sources of nutrition in North Devon are pasties, fudge and clotted cream teas. Not a whiff of a vegetable in sight. Not one that wasn't covered in local Exmoor Extra Strong Cheddar, anyway.

However, to counteract some of the effect of the pasty/fudge/ clotted cream diet North Devon had thoughtfully intergrated some extreme hills and valleys of deep incline and gradient in every direction leading away from the holiday cottage we were staying in. This meant that on Sunday, when we thought we'd walk to the nearest seaside village of Lynmouth (approx. 2.5 miles) OR SO THE MAP IMPLIED), we found ourselves yomping up and down and round and round some twisty turny windy hills (that's 'windy' as in back 'n' forth on hair-pin bends, and not 'windy' as in Force 10 gales although it was a bit breezy as it happens) to the point that we actually found ourselves further away from Lynmouth than when we started off and nearly died walking back up the hill to the holiday cottage over an hour later.

It seemed that wherever we went, we encountered hills. Steep hills. Thigh burning hills. Breath -gasping, heart-pounding, calf-wobbling hills. So this dose of holiday excessive baggage has gone straight to my stomach. Still, it'll come off quick enough when I start on the broccoli again.

We nearly brought home a lost lamb. I sent postcards on Tuesday, including one to Grand-daughter Kayleigh, when I jokingly said that there were so many sheep hereabouts I'd see if I could smuggle one home. Well, on the evening of the Icelandic volcano eruption (see what the rest of the world gets up to when you turn your back for 5 minutes to go on hols??), Andy went up the hill to see if he could see the 'magnificent volcanic ash induced red sunset' promised by the weather forecasters. And when he came back (no such sunset to be seen) he said, 'I found a lost lamb.'
'Where?' I said.
'In a field at the top of the hill,' said Andy. 'On its own. Barely moving.'
'Oh,' said I, thinking where could I find a box big enough for lamb-back-to-Kent transportation mode and do they like clotted cream?
'And in the next field there was a Mummy sheep, also on her own,' said Andy. 'So I picked up the lamb and put it in the field with the Mummy sheep. And they took one look at each other and shot off in opposite directions.'
'Oh,' I said. 'Do you think we should initiate a lamb rescue mission?'
'Yes,' said Andy.

So off we went.

But as we stepped into the farmyard of where we were staying, we bumped into the owner of the holiday cottage who was putting her varied collection of hens, cockerels, ducks and geese to bed. Andy consulted her re: the lost lamb.

She pulled a face. 'I'd leave it where it is,' she said. 'If it's on its own there's probably something wrong with it.' And then she wittered on about failed rescue missions, vet's bills and dead lambs with a look on her face that said something like, 'Bloody sentimental holiday-makers.'

I'm afraid I scowled a bit at this point. I refrained myself from saying, 'But Andy IS a vet,' and 'All living things deserve a chance at life,' and 'Just provide me with a lamb-sized box and I'll make a decision thank you,' but she must have picked up the vibes because she concluded her speech by saying, 'I'll get my husband to telephone the farmer; see if he wants to do anything about it.'

Great. For the rest of the evening I was bogged down with thoughts of going on a lamb rescue mission and being accused by the farmer of stealing one of his sheep, and trying to plan out where we would keep the lamb if we managed to get it in the back of the car to take home. The night ended with me taking the wimp's route i.e sending up a prayer to God to look after the lamb and hoping it was still safe in the morning.

Okay, maybe I was being a pathetic, unrealistic sentimentalist. Maybe the neighbours, thus far tolerant of our hens and our bees-to-be would have drawn the line at a lamb appearing in the greenhouse, but we'd have found a way around it. And, quite frankly, if a farmer is so blase and cavalier about his livestock, he has no right being a farmer in the first place.

Holiday rant over. Time to hit the Wii Fit and lettuce!

Have they gone yet?

'Have they gone yet?'
'I don't think so. I can still hear the wails of an angst ridden soul emanating from the bathroom.'
'Why does she do that do you think?'
'Blowed if I know. She should try eating a few worms. Then she' d know true suffering.'
'And do I have to type this with a cat on my lap?'
'No. Kick her off...'

Yooowwllllllllll............pfffsttttt....pffttt....

'Look,' says Miggins. 'If you two are going to hijack the Manor blog for a week whilst Andy and Denise are on holiday, you've got to be subtle.'
'Subtle? I don't do subtle,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'So I see,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Your hat says it all. Who kicked the cat?'
'She did!' say Pumphrey and Slocombe, pointing accusatory wings at each other.
'Or possibly Mrs Bennett from beyond the grave,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Don't you be dragging Mrs Bennett into this. She would NEVER kick a cat,' says Miggins. 'Her legs were far too short for a start.'

An awkward silence ensues. Upstairs, the wailing has stopped and been replaced by the far more cheerful sounds of someone singing 'Dancing in the Moonlight,' and going into the loft to retrieve suitcases.

'Talk about mood swings,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'When are they going?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only Tango Pete called. He wants to know when he can arrive to start setting up the portaloos for 'HenFest 2010.'
'Not until mid-day tomorrow,' says Mrs Miggins. 'They're supposed to be leaving at 10, but you know what she's like. Reckons she's all organised, but then spends an extra half hour running around doing pointless displacement activities like hoovering the cupboard under the stairs or repointing the chimney.'
'Okay,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'I'll call him back and let him know. '
'And you've bribed our chicken sitter?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'All inclusive week to see Michael Buble in concert seven times,' says Miggins. 'The muck will hit the fan only when the credit card bill arrives, and then I say we meld into the background until the shouting is over.'
'She'll never suspect us,' sayd Slocombe. 'After all, it's a well known fact that chickens have no idea about how to use a credit card.'
'Quite,' says Miggins.
'Actually, I'm surprised at how well I can manage this keyboard,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Especially now I've got rid of the cat.'
'It's because you've got nimble toes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I have nimble toes, too, but they are more suited to the ballet.'
'Perhaps I should develop a career in keyboarding,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'There's no such thing,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Really?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'What am I thinking of then?'
'Snowboarding?' suggests Mrs Pumphrey.
'Ironing boarding?' says Mrs Miggins, who, quite frankly, would like someone else to do the sheets and duvet covers every once in a while.
'No, no,' says Mrs Slocombe. She pauses in her typing to have a think ...

............


...........


'You'll have to start again,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Or we won't get any further.'
'Sorry,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Well, whatever it is I'm trying to think of, I'm sure it will come to me soon. So, HenFest 2010, here we come, eh?'
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I'm very excited. I've got a new head scarf in Parisian Pink chiffon, and a tambourine.'
'And I've left the outside tap running so we'll have a good pile of mud,' says Mrs Miggins.

Upstairs, the sound of suitcases being dropped fromt the loft hatch has stopped.

'What's she doing now?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Decanting shampoo, conditioner, shower gel and moisturiser into handy travel-size bottles,' says Mrs Miggins.

'The sign of a deranged mind in need of a good holiday,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey.
'Exactly,' says Mrs Miggins. 'But at least they can go away knowing Much Malarkey Manor will be in good hands. Or rather wings.'
'Is that a good thing?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Of course!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Just you wait and see.'

The Trainee Chicken Keeper

Not everyone at Much Malarkey Manor is keen on our livestock expansion programme. And by 'everyone' I mean Heather. On discovering that bees were on the way, she said, 'I suppose I shan't be able to have my bedroom window open now.'

Quite what makes her think that 50,000 bees would suddenly want to access her bedroom I do not know. I suppose she has a good selection of DVDs and some interesting theatrical-type posters to peruse. But given the choice of staying outside and roaming the skies for pollen and nectar, and sharing a room with someone who would be screaming loudly at their appearance, in order to watch 'Michael McKintyre Live at the Apollo,' I think a bee would probably opt for the former.

Added to this trauma, Heather has been designated Chief Chicken Keeper for the next week whilst Andy and I have a holiday in Devon. In order to keep the chickens to my exacting standards (i.e make sure they don't drop dead) I took Heather to Cluckinghen Palace yesterday afternoon to run through the 'putting the chickens to bed' routine. I thought I'd sneak in the 'getting the chickens up in the morning' routine as we went along, as it involved getting up at some ungodly hour in the morning.

'So,' I said, 'firstly you will need to enter the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. You cannot get away with flinging food and stuff over the fence at them.'
'Right,' said Heather. I glanced down and noticed she was wearing totally unsuitable footwear, i.e not wellies.
'You will need to excavate the front of the pod or the door won't shut properly,' I said. 'This is because during the day the chickens dig all the bark chippings up into a heap in front of their front door. They do it to annoy me. I've left a shovel by the door with which to excavate.'
'Right,' said Heather.
'I will clean the pod out before we go tomorrow, which will be okay for the week. But you'll need to empty the bottom tray mid-week so there isn't a build up,' I said.
'A build-up of what?' said Heather.
'Poo,' I said. 'Although mid-week poo clearing isn't too bad during the spring and summer as the girls don't spend so much time in there pooping.'
'Why's that then?' said Heather.

Here we go, I thought.
'Because they get up at 6 a.m and go to bed at 8 p.m, thereby spending around 6 hours a day less inside than they do in the winter,' I said quickly.
'I'm sorry,' said Heather. 'But what time did you say they get up?'
'6 a.m,' I said.

I don't know why Heather needed telling this. She knows what time they wake in the summer because she sleeps with her bedroom window open and there's been many a time when she's complained about clucking hens waking her with a dawn chorus. Still, this won't be a problem when the bees arrive as I suspect the bedroom window will remain firmly shut.

'So how do I get the poop tray out?' said Heather.
'If you put your hand under the pod, you will feel a metal catch,' I said. 'Press it up and it will allow the tray to slide out. Pull out the tray and shovel contents into compost bin. You'll need to take the lid off the bin beforehand because it's a tricky operation to hold a poopy tray with one hand and try and get the bin lid off with the other.'

'I HAVE POO ON MY HAND!!' said Heather. Still, she gamely followed my instructions and managed to get poop into bin with no further ado.

'And in the morning,' I said, 'I hold a double hand of pellets for the hens to eat first because they sometimes take a while to realise they have two feeders in the run and don't really need my help. It's a bonding thing.'

Heather is not good with hand-feeding hens. I think it's the sharp pointy beak meeting soft flesh she objects to. Still, she got a handful of pellets and held them out. Mrs Miggins approached, because she is the most human friendly.

'Aaaaargh!!' said Heather, as Mrs Miggins, usually a very gentle pecker, ignored the food and went straight for Heather's thumb nail.
'It's because you're wearing red nail varnish,' I said. 'Chickens go for red spots because they think it's a nice bloody wound they can pick over. It brings out their cannabalistic tendencies.'
'Nice,' said Heather. 'That's coming off this evening, then.'

'Change their water twice a day, especially if the weather's hot,' I continued. 'And collect eggs, and change their bedding a couple of times a week, especially if it rains.'

'Anything else?' said Heather.

'Did you tell her that Tuesday night is curry night, and that on Wednesdays we'll need her to make up a four for bridge?' said Mrs Miggins.
'And that we're half way through 'Bridget Jones' Diary' for our bedtime story?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And if we miss a week we'll forget what happened and have to start all over again?'
'And that we go to yoga on Fridays and will need a lift this week because Tango Pete's campervan's off the road with its head gasket?' said Mrs Slocombe.

'You're joking?' said Heather, staring at the chickens, who were staring back, no doubt wondering if it was worth another lunge at those nice shiny red bits on the ends of her fingers.

I gave a shrug. It's all part of chicken-keeping to me. I'm used to it.

'So, do you think you'll be okay?' I said.
'Yes,' said Heather, because one of her finer points as a human being is that she is determined never to let anything beat her.
'Good,' I said, as we went back indoors so Heather could disinfect her hand of poop. 'Now, about the cats...'
'I'm not doing bees if you go on holiday next year,' Heather said. 'No way. Never.'

Ah, I think. Never say never. It's a dangerous thing, tempting Fate.