Silence is golden

Listen. Can you hear that? Isn't it lovely? It is the sound of Miggins and Pumphrey pottering in the North Wing, of Slocombe and Poo pottering in the South Wing, of prolapsed bottoms staying put, of feathers regrowing to cover pink bottoms, of plants growing quietly on the patio and in the greenhouse, of polytunnel up and finished. It is the sound of quiet contentment at Much Malarkey Manor. I'm not going to say it will last, but for the moment I am going to enjoy it by sitting here and doing nothing.

I feel I deserve to do nothing this afternoon. I went swimming this morning, came home, tidied the house. I cut all the squash bottles I've been saving since before Christmas into two pieces- the bottom cylindrical piece to go over young tender seedlings recently planted out on the allotment in order to save them from slugs, snails and pigeons, the top funnel part to be inserted pointy end down, one next to each plant in the polytunnel so water can be directed straight to their roots instead of being sprayed wildly all over the leaves and thus inviting trouble with fungal infections. I walked to the allotment, opened the tunnel (blimey it was hot) and spent two hours doing weeding and watering and clever Heath Robinson things with dissected squash bottles. Then I walked home in what can only be described as Sahara desert conditions, reaching the front door just before melting point.

I had lunch, texted Heather to make sure she was okay (her erstwhile ex-friend is causing trouble again - what is wrong with the girl? ) and then I thought, better do my blog.

There was a minor worry last night when I went to refill the chickens' water stations (must be done twice a day in hot weather as they don't half get through some water. If you sit close to a chicken when they are drinking water, you can hear their crops gurgle. It is very entertaining. I've been thinking about doing Britain's Got Talent next year. Me and the hens, on stage, gurgling to something by Take That or Motorhead. Bet we make the semi's at least!) I happened to glance at Mrs Slocombe and my initial thought at what I saw was 'Oh, for heaven's sake, she's escaped to the tattoo parlour and had 'I love Guns'n' Roses' tattoed on her neck.' I've had words with her about this before. 'You'll look silly when you get old and your skin starts sagging,' I said. But on closer inspection the long streaky bits of blue turned out to be...

...BRAND NEW FEATHERS!!!!

Yes, Slocombe the feather plucker is actually growing feathers rather than trying to pull them out! Now this could mean either a) she is calming down in her new situation a deux or b) she is restocking for another manic bout of feather eating. I'm hanging onto the first option. I think it is the pecka-block I brought them. I often see Mrs S pecking at it like a demented pneumatic drill. The trick, I think, is that pecka blocks are incredibly hard so a lot of intense pecking has to be done to get even the smallest piece of corn off it.

So, my next project (when I've spent another hour or two doing nothing and enjoying the silence) is going to be to make my own pecka blocks. Cluckinghen Palace will become a pecka block heaven. It will be like you've accidentally walked into the Tate Gallery during their 'Pecka Block' season. I've found a recipe already, on a marvellous website at http://www.poultrychat.com/ and it seems the trick is to cook long and slow to get the resultant pecka block as hard as possible.

'It also says you can add your own ingredients to the basic mix,' says Miggins who is looking much better, bottom wise. 'So I've taken orders. I would like mozzarella, pesto and extra pine nuts, Mrs Pumphrey would like walnut whips and candyfloss, Mrs Poo wants vegetable korma, poppadoms and raita, and Mrs Slocombe wants a Lion Bar, Marmite and sugar puffs.'

'You'll be lucky, ' I say.
'Or I could prolapse my bottom again,' says Miggins. 'Because I can, you know.'
' Don't you dare,' I say.
'Looking forward to those pecka blocks,' says Miggins, as she heads of cheerfully, and quietly, to the Dowager House.

And finally, here is a picture of the completed polytunnel. (It's very hot inside.)