Happy Birthday to Me!

Today it is my birthday. The hens have discovered this - I have no idea how. Perhaps it has something to do with the big, electronic 'BIRTHDAY COUNTDOWN' calendar that had been hanging on the outside of the house since August. Or the fact that every morning, when I step into the garden to feed them I shout 'IT'S MY BIRTHDAY SOON.' And I did mention the day before yesterday when I was cleaning them out that they shouldn't expect me to have to clean them out on SUNDAY which is my BIRTHDAY and perhaps they should consider wielding the shovel themselves for a change.

Anyway, some how they discovered it is my birthday today and it's all very embarrassing when they pitch up on the doorstep bearing gifts.

'So how old are you?' asks Mrs Miggins, going straight for the jugular. I laugh coyly and blush a little. 'Guess,' I say. 'Fifty seven,' says Miggins. 'Guess again,' I suggest through gritted teeth. 'I don't know,' says Miggins. 'I'm a chicken. We only go up to ten.' 'I'm forty three,' I say. 'FORTY THREE?' shrieks Mrs Pumphrey who is given to shrieking a lot since filming her perfume ad. I blame the Russell Brand acting lessons. 'All right, all right,' I say. 'There's no need to shout about it.' 'Even so...forty three???' replies Mrs Pumphrey. 'That's beyond imagination. What's that in chicken years?' 'IT'S STILL FORTY THREE!!' shouts Andy from the kitchen, who gets tetchy about cross-species age comparisons.

'We have brought you gifts,' interrupts Mrs Slocombe who is keen to get back to the Eglu and catch up with last night's Strictly Come Dancing on BBC i-player. 'Yes,' says Mrs Poo. 'Of course, they may not translate well across the chicken/human gift spectrum expectation but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is,' I agree, remembering some of the gifts I have received in past years when I wondered 'what on earth were they thinking?' of the presenter. 'We got most of them from bid-up TV,' says Mrs Poo. 'On account of us not being able to get into town because of all the recent rain.' 'Except the worm and spider cake. We made that ourselves,' says Mrs Miggins proudly. 'Thank you,' I say, without heaving. 'I had to put it in the oven,' continues Mrs Miggins. 'The others are far too young to be in charge of gas.' 'Very wise,' I say, thinking how marvellous it is to have such safety- conscious hens. 'But you could get me some new oven gloves for Christmas if you like,' says Miggins. 'My old ones are getting thin in places. I singed a wing.'

I open the gifts. They include sixteen wash balls, a two carat gold bracelet inset with genuine fake diamantes, a James Bond all-action hero alarm clock with totally non-misogynistic image of a semi-naked woman sprayed in blue ink on the front, a thermal vest and a multi-functional '87 different permutations' ladder.

'Thank you,' I say. Not only do we have safety- conscious hens, we have original- thought hens. I am so proud. 'We tried to get the alarm clock with Hong Kong Phooey on it,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'only Mrs Slocombe got her dialling feather stuck in the key pad.' 'That's her excuse,' says Mrs Poo. 'I think she did it deliberately because she's got a crush on Daniel Craig.' 'Do not,' retorts Mrs Slocombe. 'Do too,' says Mrs Poo. 'I always thought Roger Moore was the definitive Bond,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Anyway, we'll leave you to your birthday now.'

'Thank you for the presents,' I call as they trip off back down the garden. I carry the gifts inside with the exception of the multi-functional ladder which is too big and too multi-functional for me to get my head around at the moment. Especially a head that contains a forty-three year old brain.

'Worm and spider cake?' I ask Andy. 'If I must,' he says.