The Trainee Chicken Keeper

Not everyone at Much Malarkey Manor is keen on our livestock expansion programme. And by 'everyone' I mean Heather. On discovering that bees were on the way, she said, 'I suppose I shan't be able to have my bedroom window open now.'

Quite what makes her think that 50,000 bees would suddenly want to access her bedroom I do not know. I suppose she has a good selection of DVDs and some interesting theatrical-type posters to peruse. But given the choice of staying outside and roaming the skies for pollen and nectar, and sharing a room with someone who would be screaming loudly at their appearance, in order to watch 'Michael McKintyre Live at the Apollo,' I think a bee would probably opt for the former.

Added to this trauma, Heather has been designated Chief Chicken Keeper for the next week whilst Andy and I have a holiday in Devon. In order to keep the chickens to my exacting standards (i.e make sure they don't drop dead) I took Heather to Cluckinghen Palace yesterday afternoon to run through the 'putting the chickens to bed' routine. I thought I'd sneak in the 'getting the chickens up in the morning' routine as we went along, as it involved getting up at some ungodly hour in the morning.

'So,' I said, 'firstly you will need to enter the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. You cannot get away with flinging food and stuff over the fence at them.'
'Right,' said Heather. I glanced down and noticed she was wearing totally unsuitable footwear, i.e not wellies.
'You will need to excavate the front of the pod or the door won't shut properly,' I said. 'This is because during the day the chickens dig all the bark chippings up into a heap in front of their front door. They do it to annoy me. I've left a shovel by the door with which to excavate.'
'Right,' said Heather.
'I will clean the pod out before we go tomorrow, which will be okay for the week. But you'll need to empty the bottom tray mid-week so there isn't a build up,' I said.
'A build-up of what?' said Heather.
'Poo,' I said. 'Although mid-week poo clearing isn't too bad during the spring and summer as the girls don't spend so much time in there pooping.'
'Why's that then?' said Heather.

Here we go, I thought.
'Because they get up at 6 a.m and go to bed at 8 p.m, thereby spending around 6 hours a day less inside than they do in the winter,' I said quickly.
'I'm sorry,' said Heather. 'But what time did you say they get up?'
'6 a.m,' I said.

I don't know why Heather needed telling this. She knows what time they wake in the summer because she sleeps with her bedroom window open and there's been many a time when she's complained about clucking hens waking her with a dawn chorus. Still, this won't be a problem when the bees arrive as I suspect the bedroom window will remain firmly shut.

'So how do I get the poop tray out?' said Heather.
'If you put your hand under the pod, you will feel a metal catch,' I said. 'Press it up and it will allow the tray to slide out. Pull out the tray and shovel contents into compost bin. You'll need to take the lid off the bin beforehand because it's a tricky operation to hold a poopy tray with one hand and try and get the bin lid off with the other.'

'I HAVE POO ON MY HAND!!' said Heather. Still, she gamely followed my instructions and managed to get poop into bin with no further ado.

'And in the morning,' I said, 'I hold a double hand of pellets for the hens to eat first because they sometimes take a while to realise they have two feeders in the run and don't really need my help. It's a bonding thing.'

Heather is not good with hand-feeding hens. I think it's the sharp pointy beak meeting soft flesh she objects to. Still, she got a handful of pellets and held them out. Mrs Miggins approached, because she is the most human friendly.

'Aaaaargh!!' said Heather, as Mrs Miggins, usually a very gentle pecker, ignored the food and went straight for Heather's thumb nail.
'It's because you're wearing red nail varnish,' I said. 'Chickens go for red spots because they think it's a nice bloody wound they can pick over. It brings out their cannabalistic tendencies.'
'Nice,' said Heather. 'That's coming off this evening, then.'

'Change their water twice a day, especially if the weather's hot,' I continued. 'And collect eggs, and change their bedding a couple of times a week, especially if it rains.'

'Anything else?' said Heather.

'Did you tell her that Tuesday night is curry night, and that on Wednesdays we'll need her to make up a four for bridge?' said Mrs Miggins.
'And that we're half way through 'Bridget Jones' Diary' for our bedtime story?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And if we miss a week we'll forget what happened and have to start all over again?'
'And that we go to yoga on Fridays and will need a lift this week because Tango Pete's campervan's off the road with its head gasket?' said Mrs Slocombe.

'You're joking?' said Heather, staring at the chickens, who were staring back, no doubt wondering if it was worth another lunge at those nice shiny red bits on the ends of her fingers.

I gave a shrug. It's all part of chicken-keeping to me. I'm used to it.

'So, do you think you'll be okay?' I said.
'Yes,' said Heather, because one of her finer points as a human being is that she is determined never to let anything beat her.
'Good,' I said, as we went back indoors so Heather could disinfect her hand of poop. 'Now, about the cats...'
'I'm not doing bees if you go on holiday next year,' Heather said. 'No way. Never.'

Ah, I think. Never say never. It's a dangerous thing, tempting Fate.