Waste Not Part 2

Having kicked the new food recycle bin around the kitchen for a few days, I have at last decided on its fate. It has been designated 'chicken feed bin' and becomes instantly more useful than when it was delivered a week ago. It is dry, clean and lockable, and is therefore a perfect container for layers pellets.

Problem solved.

Over the weekend, we placed an order for a fruit cage. We spent a windy half hour at the allotment making crucial measurements and decided that the best size would be 15 x 15 feet. Needless to say, fruit cages don't come in that size, so we ended up ordering an 18 x 12 feet one, which means some of the raspberry canes will have to be relocated, which is okay because they are spreading their runners well and we have considerably more canes than the dozen we planted three years ago.

The polytunnel, despite the hugely gusty winds of late, still stands proud and strong, so the erection of a fruit cage, we have decided, will hold no fear for us! (Famous last words...)

Got home from work yesterday to find Mrs Pumphrey standing on the back of the garden bench looking like someone had been at her with an axe. Blood everywhere! Ye Gods! I dashed into the garden towards Mrs Pumphrey; Mrs P dashed off in the opposite direction. Of all the three hens , she is the trickiest to catch. Despite bribes of sunflower seeds and apple, I couldn't grab her, but I got close enough to see that it looked like she'd managed to tear her comb. She didn't seemed bothered by her injury, and blood-thirsty Mrs Slocombe was leaving her alone, so I phoned Andy, informed him of the damage and waited until he got home so we could clean her up.

On closer inspection, and after a goodly mop up with warm water, cotton wool, tissue and hibiscrub, it seems she had some how lost a small piece out her comb, probably by sticking her head where it shouldn't have been. And combs, being well supplied with blood, meant a little injury spread a lot of goo, highlighted by her being a white hen and blood being red.

Andy used superglue to seal the wound (don't ask, but he and Pumphrey almost became joined for life) and she was confined to chicken hospital for the night but not before demonstrating her appreciation for my nursely ministrations by spraying me generously with bloodied water and hibiscrub.

This morning, she seems fine. The sun is shining, so sunbathing is on the agenda, and the 'got-at-by-an-axe-murderer' look has mostly faded.

Chickens eh? Who'd have 'em??