Chicken's Bottoms

Mrs Slocombe has been confined in a solitary way to the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace (The Garden Room aka the revamped bunny hutch) because she has what Mrs Miggins had last year, which is a bit of a prolapse of her lady-bits.

Luckily, her lady-bits problem isn't as severe as was Mrs Miggins', which, as you know, required the donning of the latex glove and the sticking of the finger where, quite frankly, a human being shouldn't have to stick a finger, ever.

'You should have been on the other end,' says Miggins.
'I think not,' says I.

Anyway, having cleaned up and sorted out Mrs S on the Sunday, when I thought with a sinking heart, 'Oh, oh, here we go again,' we thought it best to keep her separate from Miggo and Pumphrey, especially as the sight of a bit of fresh blood brought out the vampire in Pumphrey. So Mrs Slocombe has been recouperating in her own accommodation, and her lady-bits have shown a gradual but pleasing improvement.

'How is Mrs Slocombe today?' Andy asks each morning, as 'tis me who goes out on chicken duties first thing.
'She savaged me,' I say.
'Ah, good,' says the Vet.
'Not for me,' I say. But I've got used to chickens and their excitable breakfast beaks of a morning. And as long as Mrs Slocombe is being over-enthusiastic with the pecking, it means she's not on death's door.

Today, I get home and pop into the garden to do a livestock check aka chat to a chicken and admire the bees. I take out some apple for my girls; Mrs Slocombe is nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, I think I am going to find a deceased chicken, feet up to heaven at the back of the garden.

But no! Mrs Slocombe is on the job, so to speak. She's in the bunny hutch and she gives me a bit of a look when I open the door. She bucks the advice of the hen keeping books which states that hens lay their eggs before 11 a.m. 95% of Mrs Slocombe's eggs are laid in the afternoon. I put this down to her being mad.

'I've brought you some apple,' I say.
'Leave it there,' says Slocombe. 'I'll eat it whilst I'm waiting for the egg to pop.'
'Won't it give you hiccups?' I say. I mean, I know what happens to me when I bolt down a peanut butter and cucumber wrap whilst running around trying to write a cohesive lesson objective on the whiteboard for the Year 8's.
'Possibly,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'But you won't mind a figure-of-eight egg, will you?'
'Oh no,' I say. 'I'm just glad you are feeling better.'
'Did I say I was feeling better?' says Slocombe. 'Just because I am wolfing down this apple, doesn't mean I am feeling better.'
'Right,' I say. I take this as my queue to leave her to it.

So there you go. More chicken angst. But that's what happens when you are responsible for animals. If it's not the cats, it's the chickens and if it's not the chickens, it's the bees.

Except the bees are still being very good at the mo. And I'm guessing by the activity on the front of the hive today that we have a darn sight more bees than the 10,000 we started off with three weeks ago. Queen Mildred has been very busy.

And heaven help me if SHE ever gets a problem with her lady-bits.