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...)