Well, you wood, woodn't you?

Last year I bought Andy a sausage making machine for an anniversary pressie. Not that the 4th year equates to sausages, though. I think it was metal or electrical equipment. Anyway, since he had an unsettling experience with 120 feet of sausage skins made from pig's innards, which then languished in brine in the fridge for slightly longer than I could abide seeing them there, I decided this year to get something that wouldn't clutter up the kitchen sideboard and that didn't involve the slaughter of any innocent creatures. (I am still edging towards vegetarianism but am holding off until we've been to our posh hotel tonight as there will be a scrummy full English breakfast in the offing tomorrow).

So, something to do with wood. That 'woodn't' take up too much room in the house. That 'wood' appeal to Andy's charitable nature. That 'wood' be educational. And interesting. And 'wood' allow me to make many pathetic puns through the course of the day.

So I got him a membership to...

...THE WOODLAND TRUST!!

You see - wood -woodland - trees- paper?? It all dovetails rather nicely!

Andy was thrilled! (Weren't you, darling??)

And quite right too. He got a newly planted tree dedicated to him in a woodland near to where we live. (So I have got him a piece of woodland, albeit in the form of a single adopted tree). He got a woodland guide to woodland he can visit throughout Britain, a car sticker and a subscription to the Woodland Trust magazine which brings you up to date news about wood and trees.

And he got a handy pocket guide to the leaves of native woodland trees. It's even shaped like a leaf! And it fits easily in your pocket. So handy for taking on walks and using to identify mysterious trees.

What more could a man want? (Andy, this is your cue to strike a manly pose and go 'Aaaarrrrrhhhhh.')

And now we are getting ready to go to Dorset. Heather is in charge of chickens and cats. Yesterday I gave her a crash course in how to pick up a chicken.

'You'll need to pick up Mrs Poo to bring her indoors in the evening,' I said, when Heather gave me a look like I'd suggested she pick up dog poop with her bare hands.
'I have to PICK UP A CHICKEN?' she said.
'Don't get hysterical,' I said. 'It's very simple.'

And I gave a demonstration.

'One hand either side, like you are grasping a rugby ball,' I said, gripping Mrs Poo like a rugby ball. 'And then lift her and place her firmly under your arm, making sure you keep her wings tight against her side.'
'What happens if I lose grip on her wings?' said Heather.
'She will sense freedom and flap like loon. And you may suffer feather lacerations to your face which will scar you for life,' I said.
'Oh goody,' said Heather.
'If you like, you can then support her feet with your spare hand,' I said, balancing Mrs Poo's feet on my spare hand. 'It depends how you feel about chicken feet.'
'Right,' said Heather, who looked like she wanted to stay away from the feet of chicken as much as possible.
'And then when you put her down, keep her wings snug against her body, resume the rugby ball hold and release gently,' I finished, putting Mrs Poo on the ground. 'Now you try.'

So Heather repeated the process of picking up Mrs Poo, tucking her under her arm and then putting her down again.

'What the heck are you doing?' said Mrs Poo.
'Practising chicken lifting,' I said.
'Well, can you stop it only I'm feeling nauseous,' said Poo.

'What happens if I can't catch her?' said Heather.
'Well,' I said, 'in a way that would be a good thing because it means she is feeling fully fit again. However, she's not moving very fast at the mo so this is unlikely to be a problem. If it is, then you need to loom over her thus,' and I raised my arms over my head in a looming fashion, 'and she will think you are a cockerel and duck close to the ground in the assumed mating position.'

'Then what?' said Heather, who by now was probably doubting her wisdom in returning home after 3 years of chicken free freedom in Norwich.
'Pat her on the back and grab her,' I said.
'Like a rugby ball?'
'Exactly.'

So, off to River Cottage now. And a posh hotel in Chard.

Well, you 'wood', 'woodn't' you?