The Dowager House and Problems 'Down Below'

Last night I dreamt of roast chicken, cooked slowly over wood chips at 70 degrees for 9 hours. Two roast chickens, in fact. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey, to be precise.

Yesterday, Miggo and Pumphrey moved into their new accommodation in the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace. Andy did a marvellous job of converting the rabbit hutch, with nesting box bedroom compartment, roosting bars and shutters on the front door to keep out the light/rats/foxes/pizza delivery boys.
'Have they got enough air?' I said, inspecting the handiwork.
'Yes,' said Andy, firmly pointing to ventilation panels 'A' and 'B' with his screwdriver. 'They have plenty of air.'

I wasn't convinced, hence the dream. It was an irrational train of thought. After all, bunnies sleep in hutches all the time and they wear fur coats. Anyway, we left the door open to see if the girls would take themselves off to bed. Needless to say, because they are chickens and have tiny, tiny brains and are ridiculously suspicious of all new things, they didn't so in the break between 'Britain's Got Talent' and 'Britain's Got Talent - The Final Result' we monitered the going to bed situation and when Miggins and Pumphrey were still loitering about at 9 p.m, we took matters into our own hands and put them to bed ourselves, quickly shutting the door behind them. Andy checked on them after 10 minutes.
'They're okay,' he said. 'Both sitting down and making clucky noises. No beaks pressed against the walls, no squawks of 'let us out, let us out.'

(I am very pleased 'Diversity' won Britain's Got Talent, by the way. They have been my favourites all the way along - entertaining, innovative, professional, and an all around nice bunch of guys. The little one has hair that looks exactly like one of my pot plants. Except it isn't green. And I could never muster any emotion for Susan Boyle other than abject pity and concern for her psychological welfare.)

As the birds started to rev up outside this morning at 4.30, I was awake. An hour later, when I could bear it no longer, I got up and rushed outside. Reassuring clucking was coming from both the North and South wings.
'I can't believe you shut me in here all night on my own with Mrs Poo,' said Slocombe when I opened South Wing. 'You know she's a complete psychopath, don't you?'
'You're a fine one to talk,' I said. 'Besides, you'll be fine. Think of it as a learning curve.'

'I can't believe you shut us in a rabbit hutch all night,' said Miggins and Pumphrey as I opened the South Wing. They both stood and looked at me.
'Well,' I said, 'are you coming out, or what?'
'How do we do that?' said Pumphrey.
'Jump,' I said.
'Jump???' said Miggins, clearly appalled. 'Without a safety net?'
'It's only 4 inches,' I said.

Mrs Pumphrey took the plunge and Miggo followed on.
'I think I may be too old for this,' she said.
'Do you like your new house?' I said, refilling their water bowl and throwing some layers pellets on the ground so they could have a rummage.
'It's okay,' said Miggins. 'I think I shall call it 'The Dowager House. I shall be the Dowager Duchess and Mrs Pumphrey shall be my spinster companion.'
'Okay,' I say. I think there might be another Jane Austen themed weekend on the horizon. Better dig out the poplin dresses and bonnets sprigged with roses.

The next part of my blog is probably best not read over breakfast so if you're on the porridge now, or scambled eggs, you might want to turn away.

I learned a new hen keeping skill yesterday. It is the reverse action of the new party trick Miggins has developed called 'prolapsing her bottom.' It is a bit worrying she is doing this and we are keeping our fingers crossed it remains a small prolapse that will eventually stay put or Miggins is going to become one of those chickens who registers on the lower end of the 'hens live for between 2 and 5 years' scale. (And I shall be very sad and cry a lot because, and don't tell the others, Miggins is my favourite.) It happened whilst Andy was at work. I telephoned him. He issued instructions involving upending Mrs Miggins, a latex glove, and a gentle but firm pushing motion.

I did it. Replaced the prolapse. It stayed put, thank heavens. It's not for the squeamish, but if you're going to keep chickens, you have to learn these things.
'I would say thank you,' said Miggins, ruffling her feathers as I put her down. 'But I need to restore my dignity first.'
'I quite understand,' I said. It's no way to treat a Dowager Duchess.