So Andy spent yesterday after crafting a genuine artisan, rustic- type ladder for the new chicken penthouse.
'There,' he said, placing it against the platform upon which the Eglu pod is now perched, I mean, securely attached. 'Now all we need to do is get the girls used to going up and down it. What does Hugh F-W say about the issue of enticing chickens up ladders?'
'He says,' I said, because I have consulted Hugh's book upon the matter, 'that it might take them a week to get used to using the ladder, that we might need to physically place them up on the platform each night for a few days and that food is a good bribery tool. And that Mrs Miggins said that appropriate food will be hors d'oeuvres or those little French fancy cakes.'
'Mrs Miggins can think again,' said Andy, and he scattered some layers pellets up the ladder. He looked around the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. 'Now, what I need is a decoy.'
He spied Mrs Miggins. 'Come on, Miggo,' he said, 'you can be the pioneer ladder climber.'
So he caught Miggins, who is the tamest and most catcheable, and placed her on top of the platform. Mrs Miggins stood there, looking down. Then she looked at the Eglu. Then she went inside the Eglu. Clucked a bit. Realised she wasn't going to suffer from altitude sickness (nose bleeds, dizziness, oxygen deprivation etc), and came out again to admire the view.
By this time, Mrs Pumphrey had appeared at the bottom of the ladder.
'What are you doing up there?' she called.
'He put me up here,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Him. Over there. The one with handfuls of splinters gleaned from crafting a chicken ladder.'
'Waste of time if you ask me,' said Mrs Pumphrey, and in one vertical take-off leap, jumped straight onto the platform, by-passing the ladder. She stood and admired the view.
'It's taller up here, isn't it?' she said.
'Yes,' said Miggins.
'And Mrs Slocombe looks somehow smaller,' said Pumphrey.
'That'll be perspective,' said Mrs Miggins, who did GCSE Art at evening school.
Within twenty minutes all three hens had jumped up and down from the platform several times. The ladder was roundly ignored. Miggins and Pumphrey had both made one attempt each to walk down the ladder, but when that attempt had resulted in something akin to the extreme sport of ladder skidding/ surfing they went back to jumping.
'I think they'll be okay going to bed tonight,' I said. 'We clearly have highly intelligent hens.'
'Hmmmm...' said Andy.
So, as night fell, we ventured into the garden to check that the hens were safely installed in the pod. The hens were safely installed under the platform against what remained of the eucalyptus stump.
'Good grief,' said Andy. He went into the run, picked up Miggins and put her on the platform. Into the pod she went. Mrs Pumphrey soon followed. Mrs Slocombe looked confused, but then she is mad. Then she flung herself onto the platform and she, too, retired for the evening.
And today they jumped down from the platform, and at some point all three of them jumped back up to lay eggs because there were three eggs in the nest box when we checked on our return from Bee-Keeping Part 4.
A week to get used to the change? Ha! What does Hugh know? Week-smeek!
Additional news 1)- Bee-Keeping Part 4 went very well today. No bee handling, because it was hissing it down with rain, but much interesting learning took place.
Additional news 2) Grand-daughter Kayleigh pooped on my trouser leg last night and it went right through the fabric and turned my leg a funny shade of yellow. Pretty impressive for a not-quite seven week old, I reckon. She is also doing little smiles which is enough to make a Granny's heart melt.
Additional news 3) - I continue to be 100% vegetarian; Andy is running at about 80% on account of a full-English breakfast times two when he was on a course in Swindon at the beginning of the week. And some sweet and sour chicken balls. But that could just be the way he is sitting.
Additional news 4) - The author would like to know if there is ANYONE OUT THERE? PLEASE??? She is beginning to worry, due to lack of comments for ages, that she is losing her entertaining writing touch. Just wave your hand if you are still reading...
Showing posts with label Chickens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chickens. Show all posts
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Up in the air
'Why has Cluckinghen Palace become high rise?'
This is the question posed by Mrs Miggins on seeing the Eglu pod perched atop a table top in the garden.
'Think of it as penthouse rather than high rise,' I say. After all, we do have certain standards to maintain here at the Manor.
'Penthouse schmenthouse,' says Miggins. 'What's our house doing on a table? And,' she adds, with a withering stare, 'what's more to the point, how are we supposed to reach it?' And she cocks a leg to prove the point that the distance between her outstretched toe and the top of the table is at least, ooooh, 36 inches. Miggins manages to balance for all of five seconds before keeling over onto her back. And there she lays in the grass, struggling like an upended beetle to right herself.
'I think you may be over-reacting to the situation,' I say.
'I'm proving the point that I am two and a hlaf years old and as such am too ancient to able to jump THAT high,' says Mrs Miggins.
Well, I think, I saw you wrestling a worm from Mrs Pumphrey this morning, no holds barred, so I think there's some energy in the old bird yet. But I don't say this because if there is one thing I have learned from my two years of chicken keeping and that is never to argue with a tetchy hen.
'You haven't answered my question,' says Miggins. She hauls herself to her feet and brushes off her Telly Tubby costume (she's running the London Marathon later dressed as Dipsy but only because her first choice of La-La was already out on hire).
'Well,' I say. 'We're going to instal a ladder...'
'A ladder???' interrupts Miggins a la Lady Bracknell.
'And you can climb the ladder...'
'A LADDER????'
'It's very simple,' I say. 'Hugh F-W says so. All I need to do is train you...'
'What do you think I am?' demands Miggins. 'A bloomin' Labrador??'
'...by placing food at strategic places up the rungs,' I say.
'What kind of food?' says Miggins.
'I was thinking layers pellets,' I say.
'Think again,' says Miggins.
'Sunflower seeds?' I say.
'Possibly...'
'Grapes?'
'Warmer...'
'Snail sushi?'
'Now you might be talking,' says Miggins. 'But I shall have to go and consult Betty and Gloria. I mean, I might be too old to climb a ladder, but Mrs Pumphrey is too fat and Mrs Slocombe is too mad. There are Health and Safety issues to consider. ' And she gives me one last and sinister look before stropping off to find the others. Well, as best as one can strop in a Dipsy costume.
Anyway, on our return from Bee Keeping Part Three, I find a note attached to the back door. It is headed - 'OUR DEMANDS' and looks like it has been written in Mrs Pumphrey's 'Flaming Sunset' lipstick. It says :
1) Ideally we would like a stairlift. We have ordered some suitable brochures for your perusal and someone called Darren from 'Stairway to Heaven' is coming round Wednesday fortnight to give you a quote.
2) If stairlift proves financially contraining, i.e you don't think we are worth the money even though we have kept you amply supplied in eggs and entertainment for the last two years, then a set of three graduated mounting blocks might a be suitable alternative.
3) Mrs Slocombe is keen to have a basket and pulley system. Betty and I are giving this dubious idea some thought because mad as it seems, it's still better than your stupid ladder idea
4) Mrs Slocombe is also keen on pogo sticks. However, she is going to have to work really hard to convince us of that one, but ditto above.
5) We shall consider the ladder idea provided the angle of ascent is no greater than 15% and each rung is padded with velvet to protect our feet.
6) Have you thought about a ski lift? We suggest you do.
7) Or put the pod back on the ground. We know it's human nature to insist on mending something that isn't broken, but we are chickens and we know when to leave well alone.
8) If food bribery is to be used, we have agreed universally that nothing less than canapes of Royal Garden Party standard will be acceptable.
I put the list of demands on the kitchen table. I think, I hope 60,000 bees aren't this demanding. Three chickens are bad enough to cope with, but 60,000 bees might well send me over the edge.
This is the question posed by Mrs Miggins on seeing the Eglu pod perched atop a table top in the garden.
'Think of it as penthouse rather than high rise,' I say. After all, we do have certain standards to maintain here at the Manor.
'Penthouse schmenthouse,' says Miggins. 'What's our house doing on a table? And,' she adds, with a withering stare, 'what's more to the point, how are we supposed to reach it?' And she cocks a leg to prove the point that the distance between her outstretched toe and the top of the table is at least, ooooh, 36 inches. Miggins manages to balance for all of five seconds before keeling over onto her back. And there she lays in the grass, struggling like an upended beetle to right herself.
'I think you may be over-reacting to the situation,' I say.
'I'm proving the point that I am two and a hlaf years old and as such am too ancient to able to jump THAT high,' says Mrs Miggins.
Well, I think, I saw you wrestling a worm from Mrs Pumphrey this morning, no holds barred, so I think there's some energy in the old bird yet. But I don't say this because if there is one thing I have learned from my two years of chicken keeping and that is never to argue with a tetchy hen.
'You haven't answered my question,' says Miggins. She hauls herself to her feet and brushes off her Telly Tubby costume (she's running the London Marathon later dressed as Dipsy but only because her first choice of La-La was already out on hire).
'Well,' I say. 'We're going to instal a ladder...'
'A ladder???' interrupts Miggins a la Lady Bracknell.
'And you can climb the ladder...'
'A LADDER????'
'It's very simple,' I say. 'Hugh F-W says so. All I need to do is train you...'
'What do you think I am?' demands Miggins. 'A bloomin' Labrador??'
'...by placing food at strategic places up the rungs,' I say.
'What kind of food?' says Miggins.
'I was thinking layers pellets,' I say.
'Think again,' says Miggins.
'Sunflower seeds?' I say.
'Possibly...'
'Grapes?'
'Warmer...'
'Snail sushi?'
'Now you might be talking,' says Miggins. 'But I shall have to go and consult Betty and Gloria. I mean, I might be too old to climb a ladder, but Mrs Pumphrey is too fat and Mrs Slocombe is too mad. There are Health and Safety issues to consider. ' And she gives me one last and sinister look before stropping off to find the others. Well, as best as one can strop in a Dipsy costume.
Anyway, on our return from Bee Keeping Part Three, I find a note attached to the back door. It is headed - 'OUR DEMANDS' and looks like it has been written in Mrs Pumphrey's 'Flaming Sunset' lipstick. It says :
1) Ideally we would like a stairlift. We have ordered some suitable brochures for your perusal and someone called Darren from 'Stairway to Heaven' is coming round Wednesday fortnight to give you a quote.
2) If stairlift proves financially contraining, i.e you don't think we are worth the money even though we have kept you amply supplied in eggs and entertainment for the last two years, then a set of three graduated mounting blocks might a be suitable alternative.
3) Mrs Slocombe is keen to have a basket and pulley system. Betty and I are giving this dubious idea some thought because mad as it seems, it's still better than your stupid ladder idea
4) Mrs Slocombe is also keen on pogo sticks. However, she is going to have to work really hard to convince us of that one, but ditto above.
5) We shall consider the ladder idea provided the angle of ascent is no greater than 15% and each rung is padded with velvet to protect our feet.
6) Have you thought about a ski lift? We suggest you do.
7) Or put the pod back on the ground. We know it's human nature to insist on mending something that isn't broken, but we are chickens and we know when to leave well alone.
8) If food bribery is to be used, we have agreed universally that nothing less than canapes of Royal Garden Party standard will be acceptable.
I put the list of demands on the kitchen table. I think, I hope 60,000 bees aren't this demanding. Three chickens are bad enough to cope with, but 60,000 bees might well send me over the edge.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Vegetarian Triumph - not!
Being away on holiday encourages one to make some strange decisions. And one of the decisions I made whilst stranded 'pon the top of Exmoor was that I should return to being vegetarian. Whether this was because we shared our holiday with friends who are vegetarian, nay vegan even, or whether it was the near-kidnap of a lost lamb I do not know, but I do know I carried home with me a determined resolve to be vegetarian. And I have bought two books and a vegetarian cooking magazine just to prove it. I even went on the Vegetarian Society website which was very informative and only a teensy smidgeon evangelical.
So last Saturday, I started a week where I endeavoured to eat only veggie food. Andy said, 'I'll be veggie, too; it'll be good for my health,' and then he pulled the kind of a face that suggested he'd rather die young and happy and stuffed with a nice Cumberland sausage than old and miserable choking on lentils.
I said, 'You don't have to.'
He said, 'But I want to.'
I thought, I am not convinced, dear husband, because you have a meat-eating gene therewithin, but for the sake of ease, what with me being main chef and back to work this week, I decided he could join me for the inaugural veggie ride. (Although I did give him tuna sandwiches half way through the week because I started to feel sorry for him.)
Anyway, this morning I was feeling pretty triumphant that I'd managed a whole week without roasting a chicken. Actually, thinking about it, it's the chicken thing that's done it for me. Seeing Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe going about their daily business whilst I am, at the same time stuffing a chicken, or dismembering a chicken, or dicing a chicken, well, it all seemed very wrong. I kept thinking, 'Miggins looks like this under her glorious ginger feathers. All pink and dimpled and puckered.' And I wouldn't dream of eating any of our egg laying ladies, so why would I eat one of their non-egg laying relatives? It suddenly became very hypocritical.
I know some people keep 'egg birds' and 'meat birds' and to be honest, I was almost convinced we would do the same, when the land came our way and we could expand our self-sufficiency. But now I think that a chicken is a chicken is a chicken. And chickens are all the same under the feather and should be treated thusly. I rest my case, m'lud.
So, a whole week of veggie eating! Aha!! But then...
...I kid you not, I woke in the wee small hours this morning and thought, 'I put Worcestershire sauce in the homemade baked beans...damn!'
And why damn? Because Worcestershire sauce has anchovy in it, doesn't it? And anchovy is fish, isn't it? And fish has a face and is therefore beyond the veggie radar. Damn, damn...DAMN!!!!
You see, it's little things like that which will catch you out. You've got to be ON YOUR GUARD ALL THE TIME.
Still, onwards and upwards. Andy has planted some melon seeds (vegetarian), which have grown about a foot in the last week. Well, okay, maybe not a foot, but given they were only planted last weekend they've shot up PDQ; whether their seedling enthusiasm goes on to produce melons remains to be seen, but with the glorious weather we've been having, I won't be surprised if we are knee deep in melon sorbet by the end of the summer.
And it's bee-keeping part three tomorrow, my two Marina Lewycka books arrived yesterday for a weekend of indulgent reading activity and McVities Dark Chocolate Digestive Biscuits are suitable for vegetarians - hurrah!!
So last Saturday, I started a week where I endeavoured to eat only veggie food. Andy said, 'I'll be veggie, too; it'll be good for my health,' and then he pulled the kind of a face that suggested he'd rather die young and happy and stuffed with a nice Cumberland sausage than old and miserable choking on lentils.
I said, 'You don't have to.'
He said, 'But I want to.'
I thought, I am not convinced, dear husband, because you have a meat-eating gene therewithin, but for the sake of ease, what with me being main chef and back to work this week, I decided he could join me for the inaugural veggie ride. (Although I did give him tuna sandwiches half way through the week because I started to feel sorry for him.)
Anyway, this morning I was feeling pretty triumphant that I'd managed a whole week without roasting a chicken. Actually, thinking about it, it's the chicken thing that's done it for me. Seeing Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe going about their daily business whilst I am, at the same time stuffing a chicken, or dismembering a chicken, or dicing a chicken, well, it all seemed very wrong. I kept thinking, 'Miggins looks like this under her glorious ginger feathers. All pink and dimpled and puckered.' And I wouldn't dream of eating any of our egg laying ladies, so why would I eat one of their non-egg laying relatives? It suddenly became very hypocritical.
I know some people keep 'egg birds' and 'meat birds' and to be honest, I was almost convinced we would do the same, when the land came our way and we could expand our self-sufficiency. But now I think that a chicken is a chicken is a chicken. And chickens are all the same under the feather and should be treated thusly. I rest my case, m'lud.
So, a whole week of veggie eating! Aha!! But then...
...I kid you not, I woke in the wee small hours this morning and thought, 'I put Worcestershire sauce in the homemade baked beans...damn!'
And why damn? Because Worcestershire sauce has anchovy in it, doesn't it? And anchovy is fish, isn't it? And fish has a face and is therefore beyond the veggie radar. Damn, damn...DAMN!!!!
You see, it's little things like that which will catch you out. You've got to be ON YOUR GUARD ALL THE TIME.
Still, onwards and upwards. Andy has planted some melon seeds (vegetarian), which have grown about a foot in the last week. Well, okay, maybe not a foot, but given they were only planted last weekend they've shot up PDQ; whether their seedling enthusiasm goes on to produce melons remains to be seen, but with the glorious weather we've been having, I won't be surprised if we are knee deep in melon sorbet by the end of the summer.
And it's bee-keeping part three tomorrow, my two Marina Lewycka books arrived yesterday for a weekend of indulgent reading activity and McVities Dark Chocolate Digestive Biscuits are suitable for vegetarians - hurrah!!
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
The Running Chicken and Nearly King Jimbo
Before I get on with the main business of the day, I need to report upon the progress of Mrs Poo because you may have smelled chicken cooking on Monday and I don't want you think that we, well, you know, did the practical self-sufficiency thing with her.
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Saturday, 1 August 2009
The Trickiness of Rice and My Life of Nuts
'Is Mrs Poo still alive?' I asked Andy as he brought me a cup of tea in bed this morning.
Saturdays are our only 'cup of tea in bed' days, as Monday to Friday we are up early and getting ready for work, and Sunday is our up early and down the allotment day. Thoughtfully, he had brought me peppermint tea, following the Mexican extravaganza we had for dinner last night. I don't do spicy food very well. I think I have a delicate constitution hidden beneath my stern exterior.
'Of course she's still alive,' Andy laughed. 'She's had a peck at some food and knocked over her water bowl.'
This is a good sign. When a chicken starts knocking over their water bowl, you know they're starting to get a bit of their previous feistiness back.
We spent a companionable hour putting the world to rights about various issues (including the meanings of two bizarre dreams about 'Mamma Mia' and 'Turner and Hooch' and a gorilla hitting Andy with a breadstick) before getting up for breakfast eggs and reading newspapers. Andy administered medication to Poo, and then I thought, I know, I'll give her some left-over rice from last night.
The chickens like cooked rice. Mrs Poo ate some rice. Well, she decanted it bit by bit from the bowl and spread it around the floor of the cage. She banged it about with her beak. I think she ate some. If she didn't, at least she got a bit of occupational therapy from it.
I always do too much rice. Last night's Mexican meal was a family do, with myself and Andy, Heather, Chris and Leane and grandchild-on-the-bake making her presence felt via the power of morning sickness. I did chilli con carne, chicken Fajitas, tacos, tortilla chips and dips. I did rice to go with the chilli. The rice packet said 'Allow 50g dry rice for each person.'
So 5 x 50= 250g rice. I weighed it out. I thought, as I always do, that doesn't look nearly enough rice, so I bunged in a bit extra. And then I didn't eat any rice, neither did Chris, so we ended up with a great bowl left over.
But as I said, the chickens like it so that's their dinner sorted for today.
When I was shopping for the meat for this meal, I started having the same 'Yuk, meat,' feelings that I developed when I was expecting Heather. Perhaps I'm having pseudo-morning sickness out of sympathy for Leane, I don't know. But as I looked at the beef and the chicken lined up in the butchers, I thought, I can feel a vegetarian urge coming on again.
We eat around three vegetarian meals a week already. I only started eating meat again because my GP wrote me a prescription for iron tablets a while back because he thought it possible I might be borderline anaemic. I thought his diagnosis sounded a bit vague, but then I didn't want to take iron tablets because of their constipatory effect. I looked up daily iron requirements and decided a pork chop and a dollop of spag bol a week would rectify my possible borderline anaemic effect.
But now? Well, I'm being drawn to the Complete Vegetarian Cookbook again.
It's funny how tastes change, isn't it? Sometimes you like something, and then you don't?
And that my only food constant in life has been nuts.
Saturdays are our only 'cup of tea in bed' days, as Monday to Friday we are up early and getting ready for work, and Sunday is our up early and down the allotment day. Thoughtfully, he had brought me peppermint tea, following the Mexican extravaganza we had for dinner last night. I don't do spicy food very well. I think I have a delicate constitution hidden beneath my stern exterior.
'Of course she's still alive,' Andy laughed. 'She's had a peck at some food and knocked over her water bowl.'
This is a good sign. When a chicken starts knocking over their water bowl, you know they're starting to get a bit of their previous feistiness back.
We spent a companionable hour putting the world to rights about various issues (including the meanings of two bizarre dreams about 'Mamma Mia' and 'Turner and Hooch' and a gorilla hitting Andy with a breadstick) before getting up for breakfast eggs and reading newspapers. Andy administered medication to Poo, and then I thought, I know, I'll give her some left-over rice from last night.
The chickens like cooked rice. Mrs Poo ate some rice. Well, she decanted it bit by bit from the bowl and spread it around the floor of the cage. She banged it about with her beak. I think she ate some. If she didn't, at least she got a bit of occupational therapy from it.
I always do too much rice. Last night's Mexican meal was a family do, with myself and Andy, Heather, Chris and Leane and grandchild-on-the-bake making her presence felt via the power of morning sickness. I did chilli con carne, chicken Fajitas, tacos, tortilla chips and dips. I did rice to go with the chilli. The rice packet said 'Allow 50g dry rice for each person.'
So 5 x 50= 250g rice. I weighed it out. I thought, as I always do, that doesn't look nearly enough rice, so I bunged in a bit extra. And then I didn't eat any rice, neither did Chris, so we ended up with a great bowl left over.
But as I said, the chickens like it so that's their dinner sorted for today.
When I was shopping for the meat for this meal, I started having the same 'Yuk, meat,' feelings that I developed when I was expecting Heather. Perhaps I'm having pseudo-morning sickness out of sympathy for Leane, I don't know. But as I looked at the beef and the chicken lined up in the butchers, I thought, I can feel a vegetarian urge coming on again.
We eat around three vegetarian meals a week already. I only started eating meat again because my GP wrote me a prescription for iron tablets a while back because he thought it possible I might be borderline anaemic. I thought his diagnosis sounded a bit vague, but then I didn't want to take iron tablets because of their constipatory effect. I looked up daily iron requirements and decided a pork chop and a dollop of spag bol a week would rectify my possible borderline anaemic effect.
But now? Well, I'm being drawn to the Complete Vegetarian Cookbook again.
It's funny how tastes change, isn't it? Sometimes you like something, and then you don't?
And that my only food constant in life has been nuts.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Mrs Faux Poo, Death and Responsibility
Yesterday, I reported on the condition of Mrs Poo and her moult and chill, and the fact she has gone into one of her hunches, facilitating the need for some indoor TLC (Tender Lovin' Chicken).
Olly, who regularly reads this blog when she probably has more constructive things to do with her time, left commiserations and a comment that suggested maybe Mrs Poo was attention-seeking.
And having been on nursing duty for two days now, I am inclined to think Olly may have a point!
Yesterday, Mrs Poo was trying to eat some of her layers pellets and corn. (And sunflower seeds that I'd mixed in, too, as a bribe). She was being a bit half-hearted in her attempts - sort of bash, bash, boink, boink, look I'm trying really hard to eat my food but it's just tooooooooo much effort, poor me, I've got a chill and I'm moulting (cough, cough!)
So I thought (having been a foster mummy to a duckling), I know, I'll mush up some layers pellets with water. It'll be easier for her to eat.
This I did and presented the resultant mush to Mrs Poo in a rather nice cut glass trifle bowl (presentation is half the battle when nursing the ill).
'What's this?' she said.
'It's layers pellets and water,' I said.
'Sugared water?' said Mrs Poo.
'No, plain water,' I said. 'But it's warm. A bit like porridge.'
'Well, ' said Mrs Poo, folding her wings. 'When my grandmother made us porridge, in the days when we all lived in the frozen wastelands of the most northern tip of rain-lashed Scotland, when we were so poor we didn't have shoes and had to eat the grass that even the sheep didn't want, when Gordon Brown was...'
'Get on with it,' I said.
'...Grandma's porridge was laced with lots of brown sugar and honey and syrup and cream,' finished Mrs Poo. And then she looked pointedly at her bowl of brown mush.
'That's an awful lot of sugar,' I said. 'Not good for your teeth.'
'Chickens don't have teeth,' said Mrs Poo.
'I'm not surprised, 'I said, 'if that's how they eat their porridge.'
Anyway, Mrs Poo deigned to give the mush a nibble and then woolfed down half the bowl. I thought I heard her burp, but she denied such unlady-like behaviour.
And this morning, when she was sitting on my lap having her water, she was looking around rather more perkily than yesterday (when she could barely keep her eyes open) AND there was a lot more flicking of the water in the nurse's eye going on, too.
'I'm not going to drip water down your beak if you keep doing that,' I said a little crossly, because although I am genuinely compassionate with the truly sick, if I suspect any lead-swinging, my fuse can shorten very dramatically. And I was getting wet.
When my younger sister, bless her, was in a semi-remission with cancer, she requested one day that I make her some scrambled egg. Okay, I said. And then she proceeded to give me very strict, very precise instructions on exactly how she liked her scrambled eggs. Okay, I said, and off I trotted to make said eggs. I did think that she could probably have made her own scrambled eggs, especially as she was perfectly capable of walking, brandishing a spoon and giving bossy instructions but serious illness and filial responsibility for one's younger siblings plus a guilt complex makes you agree to do things that sometimes you perhaps wouldn't.
Anyway, I made the eggs as per instructions, took them to my sister and sat with her as she ate them.
As she placed the fork on the empty plate, she looked at me and said, 'Well, they were all right, I suppose, but not the same as Mum makes.'
What I really wanted to say was 'well, make your own effing scrambled eggs next time,' but of course, I didn't because that would have been deemed unsympathetic. And we were both very young at the time and lacking in social maturity and patience.
Is Mrs Poo really as ill as she is suggesting? When I leave her for a rest, does she immediately kick back her heels, switch on the telly and reach for a jumbo sized bottle of Tizer and box of Milk Tray?
I don't know. But I'm old enough now to be patient in my care of her until I am a happy she is properly on the mend i.e when she tries to rip the skin off my fingers.
As she sat on my lap this morning being stroked and cossetted, I was struck that her gingery blonde feathers were exactly the same colour as my sister's hair.
No, I thought. She wouldn't have come back as a chicken, would she? I mean, if you're going to be re-incarnated, you'd choose something a bit more glam than a chicken, wouldn't you?
Mrs Poo looked up at me with a bright and sparky eye.
'Yes,' she said. 'Who'd be a chicken in this household?'
Olly, who regularly reads this blog when she probably has more constructive things to do with her time, left commiserations and a comment that suggested maybe Mrs Poo was attention-seeking.
And having been on nursing duty for two days now, I am inclined to think Olly may have a point!
Yesterday, Mrs Poo was trying to eat some of her layers pellets and corn. (And sunflower seeds that I'd mixed in, too, as a bribe). She was being a bit half-hearted in her attempts - sort of bash, bash, boink, boink, look I'm trying really hard to eat my food but it's just tooooooooo much effort, poor me, I've got a chill and I'm moulting (cough, cough!)
So I thought (having been a foster mummy to a duckling), I know, I'll mush up some layers pellets with water. It'll be easier for her to eat.
This I did and presented the resultant mush to Mrs Poo in a rather nice cut glass trifle bowl (presentation is half the battle when nursing the ill).
'What's this?' she said.
'It's layers pellets and water,' I said.
'Sugared water?' said Mrs Poo.
'No, plain water,' I said. 'But it's warm. A bit like porridge.'
'Well, ' said Mrs Poo, folding her wings. 'When my grandmother made us porridge, in the days when we all lived in the frozen wastelands of the most northern tip of rain-lashed Scotland, when we were so poor we didn't have shoes and had to eat the grass that even the sheep didn't want, when Gordon Brown was...'
'Get on with it,' I said.
'...Grandma's porridge was laced with lots of brown sugar and honey and syrup and cream,' finished Mrs Poo. And then she looked pointedly at her bowl of brown mush.
'That's an awful lot of sugar,' I said. 'Not good for your teeth.'
'Chickens don't have teeth,' said Mrs Poo.
'I'm not surprised, 'I said, 'if that's how they eat their porridge.'
Anyway, Mrs Poo deigned to give the mush a nibble and then woolfed down half the bowl. I thought I heard her burp, but she denied such unlady-like behaviour.
And this morning, when she was sitting on my lap having her water, she was looking around rather more perkily than yesterday (when she could barely keep her eyes open) AND there was a lot more flicking of the water in the nurse's eye going on, too.
'I'm not going to drip water down your beak if you keep doing that,' I said a little crossly, because although I am genuinely compassionate with the truly sick, if I suspect any lead-swinging, my fuse can shorten very dramatically. And I was getting wet.
When my younger sister, bless her, was in a semi-remission with cancer, she requested one day that I make her some scrambled egg. Okay, I said. And then she proceeded to give me very strict, very precise instructions on exactly how she liked her scrambled eggs. Okay, I said, and off I trotted to make said eggs. I did think that she could probably have made her own scrambled eggs, especially as she was perfectly capable of walking, brandishing a spoon and giving bossy instructions but serious illness and filial responsibility for one's younger siblings plus a guilt complex makes you agree to do things that sometimes you perhaps wouldn't.
Anyway, I made the eggs as per instructions, took them to my sister and sat with her as she ate them.
As she placed the fork on the empty plate, she looked at me and said, 'Well, they were all right, I suppose, but not the same as Mum makes.'
What I really wanted to say was 'well, make your own effing scrambled eggs next time,' but of course, I didn't because that would have been deemed unsympathetic. And we were both very young at the time and lacking in social maturity and patience.
Is Mrs Poo really as ill as she is suggesting? When I leave her for a rest, does she immediately kick back her heels, switch on the telly and reach for a jumbo sized bottle of Tizer and box of Milk Tray?
I don't know. But I'm old enough now to be patient in my care of her until I am a happy she is properly on the mend i.e when she tries to rip the skin off my fingers.
As she sat on my lap this morning being stroked and cossetted, I was struck that her gingery blonde feathers were exactly the same colour as my sister's hair.
No, I thought. She wouldn't have come back as a chicken, would she? I mean, if you're going to be re-incarnated, you'd choose something a bit more glam than a chicken, wouldn't you?
Mrs Poo looked up at me with a bright and sparky eye.
'Yes,' she said. 'Who'd be a chicken in this household?'
Monday, 29 June 2009
The Chickens of Oz
'I'm meeeeeeeeellllllting!' came the call from the garden.
Aren't we all, I thought. I'm knocking back ice-cubes like there is no tomorrow and the cats are all lying around the house in various states of spineless collapse in their big furry coats, which are highly unsuitable as hot weather gear. And after a week of cold swimming pool water, this morning it was fair bubbling like the cauldrons of hell. Like swimming through treacle it was. There's no pleasing some people, especially not me.
I drag myself into the back garden to see what all the fuss is about.
'I'm meeeeellllllllting.' There it goes again.
'What's going on?' I call, because I haven't got the energy to shift my over-heated self more than a foot or two across the garden.
'I'm holding auditions,' calls Mrs Miggins. She is wearing a tartan beret and sitting on a canvas chair with the word 'Director' and a gold star printed on the back.
'Auditioning for what?'
'Our pantomime.'
I sigh. Despite the fact I've already had two Christmas catalogues through the post (unsolicited, I hasten to add) and the pubs and restaurants hereabouts are littered with signs shouting 'BOOK NOW FOR XMAS!' I am still a firm believer that thoughts of Christmas should not be entertained for another 5 months at least. And even pantomime rehearsals can wait until late October, surely?
'We're doing 'The Chicken of Oz,' says Miggins. 'I've booked the Wyndham Theatre in London for a four week run. I thought the steep rake in the balcony and circle would make an excellent launch pad for the flying monkeys.'
She has a point. Many years ago, I went to see a production of 'Art' at the Wyndham with some teacher colleagues. We were in the first row of the balcony and, as you step from the staircase into the auditorium, the vertiginous drop to the stage is both unexpected and breath-taking. I sat next to a woman who spent the whole performance leaning back and clinging to her seat, terrified she was going to fall into the stalls. I don't think she followed the plot of the play very well.
'So is 'The Chicken of Oz' anything like 'The Wizard of Oz?' I ask.
Mrs Miggins shrugs. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You're the one writing the script.'
'I'm writing the script?' I reply. This is news to me. I have written pantomimes before, both for school and the Girls' Brigade company I belonged to years'n'years'n'years'n'years...
'All right,' snaps Miggins. 'Give over will you? What's up? Heat getting to your brain?'
'Something like that,' I say.
'We want the same characters,' she continues. 'You know, Dorothy, the Cowardly Cow, the Tin Can and the Wicca Man...'
'Shall I stop being the Wicked Witch of the West now?' says Mrs Slocombe, for it was she who called my attention to the garden with her 'I'm meeeeellllting' call.' I notice she is lying prone on the ground, draped in a black cloak and with a bent witches hat perched cockily on her head.
'Yes, yes, ' says Miggins impatiently. 'Now go and put on the Yorkshire Terrier costume. You're trying out for Toto next.'
'I don't see why I can't try for Dorothy,' mutters Slocombe.
'I've already told you,' says Miggins. 'You are barking mad and your comb is wonky. You'd be thoroughly unbelievable as Dorothy, the sweet, pretty child from Canvas.'
'Kansas,' I say.
'Really?' says Miggins. 'So she didn't land in Oz via the medium of a flying tent?'
'No,' I say.
'Perhaps you could give it some thought when you're writing the script,' Miggins suggests, meaning 'I expect Dorothy to come from Canvas in the final cut.'
'How long before you need the script,' I say. 'Only I've got a list of rather more pressing engagements of my time at the moment.'
Miggo fixes me with a steely glare. Beneath her tartan beret she looks like a ginger version of Marlene Dietrich.
'I need it as soon as possible,' she says. 'I have a cast of thousands to co-ordinate and direct which is why I am starting rehearsals next week.'
I am distracted by Mrs Pumphrey appearing wearing a blue and white gingham frock, an apron, some shiny red shoes and wig of blonde curly ringlets. She looks more Shirley Temple than Judy Garland.
'Come on Toto,' she calls after Mrs Slocombe ,who is sweating in a dog costume and having trouble walking on four feet because she has only two and no hands to make up the short fall.
'So, script by Friday then,' says Miggins. 'Take it away, Mrs Pumphrey.'
'On the good ship...Lollipop, it's a sweet trip to the candy shop, where the something or others plaaaaaayyyyyy, on the shores of Peppermint Bay,' trills Mrs Pumphrey, whilst Mrs Slocombe tap dances in the background.
'Are they the right words?' I ask, wondering where the rainbows and yellow brick road are going to come into all this.
'You can go and argue with Mrs Poo if you like,' says Miggo. 'She's in charge of the musical score and lyrics. But I'm warning you now, she's in a foul mood.'
'Oh no she isn't,' I rejoin deciding that if you can't beat 'em, it is best to join in the whole pantomime spirit.
Mrs Miggins gives me one last, very serious look.
'No, she really is. Definitely a job for the reinforced gloves. Look, she's behind you.'
And so the sun continues to beat down on my poor overheated brain. They say it's going to last a few more days yet. I suspect it may go on a lot longer than that.
Aren't we all, I thought. I'm knocking back ice-cubes like there is no tomorrow and the cats are all lying around the house in various states of spineless collapse in their big furry coats, which are highly unsuitable as hot weather gear. And after a week of cold swimming pool water, this morning it was fair bubbling like the cauldrons of hell. Like swimming through treacle it was. There's no pleasing some people, especially not me.
I drag myself into the back garden to see what all the fuss is about.
'I'm meeeeellllllllting.' There it goes again.
'What's going on?' I call, because I haven't got the energy to shift my over-heated self more than a foot or two across the garden.
'I'm holding auditions,' calls Mrs Miggins. She is wearing a tartan beret and sitting on a canvas chair with the word 'Director' and a gold star printed on the back.
'Auditioning for what?'
'Our pantomime.'
I sigh. Despite the fact I've already had two Christmas catalogues through the post (unsolicited, I hasten to add) and the pubs and restaurants hereabouts are littered with signs shouting 'BOOK NOW FOR XMAS!' I am still a firm believer that thoughts of Christmas should not be entertained for another 5 months at least. And even pantomime rehearsals can wait until late October, surely?
'We're doing 'The Chicken of Oz,' says Miggins. 'I've booked the Wyndham Theatre in London for a four week run. I thought the steep rake in the balcony and circle would make an excellent launch pad for the flying monkeys.'
She has a point. Many years ago, I went to see a production of 'Art' at the Wyndham with some teacher colleagues. We were in the first row of the balcony and, as you step from the staircase into the auditorium, the vertiginous drop to the stage is both unexpected and breath-taking. I sat next to a woman who spent the whole performance leaning back and clinging to her seat, terrified she was going to fall into the stalls. I don't think she followed the plot of the play very well.
'So is 'The Chicken of Oz' anything like 'The Wizard of Oz?' I ask.
Mrs Miggins shrugs. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You're the one writing the script.'
'I'm writing the script?' I reply. This is news to me. I have written pantomimes before, both for school and the Girls' Brigade company I belonged to years'n'years'n'years'n'years...
'All right,' snaps Miggins. 'Give over will you? What's up? Heat getting to your brain?'
'Something like that,' I say.
'We want the same characters,' she continues. 'You know, Dorothy, the Cowardly Cow, the Tin Can and the Wicca Man...'
'Shall I stop being the Wicked Witch of the West now?' says Mrs Slocombe, for it was she who called my attention to the garden with her 'I'm meeeeellllting' call.' I notice she is lying prone on the ground, draped in a black cloak and with a bent witches hat perched cockily on her head.
'Yes, yes, ' says Miggins impatiently. 'Now go and put on the Yorkshire Terrier costume. You're trying out for Toto next.'
'I don't see why I can't try for Dorothy,' mutters Slocombe.
'I've already told you,' says Miggins. 'You are barking mad and your comb is wonky. You'd be thoroughly unbelievable as Dorothy, the sweet, pretty child from Canvas.'
'Kansas,' I say.
'Really?' says Miggins. 'So she didn't land in Oz via the medium of a flying tent?'
'No,' I say.
'Perhaps you could give it some thought when you're writing the script,' Miggins suggests, meaning 'I expect Dorothy to come from Canvas in the final cut.'
'How long before you need the script,' I say. 'Only I've got a list of rather more pressing engagements of my time at the moment.'
Miggo fixes me with a steely glare. Beneath her tartan beret she looks like a ginger version of Marlene Dietrich.
'I need it as soon as possible,' she says. 'I have a cast of thousands to co-ordinate and direct which is why I am starting rehearsals next week.'
I am distracted by Mrs Pumphrey appearing wearing a blue and white gingham frock, an apron, some shiny red shoes and wig of blonde curly ringlets. She looks more Shirley Temple than Judy Garland.
'Come on Toto,' she calls after Mrs Slocombe ,who is sweating in a dog costume and having trouble walking on four feet because she has only two and no hands to make up the short fall.
'So, script by Friday then,' says Miggins. 'Take it away, Mrs Pumphrey.'
'On the good ship...Lollipop, it's a sweet trip to the candy shop, where the something or others plaaaaaayyyyyy, on the shores of Peppermint Bay,' trills Mrs Pumphrey, whilst Mrs Slocombe tap dances in the background.
'Are they the right words?' I ask, wondering where the rainbows and yellow brick road are going to come into all this.
'You can go and argue with Mrs Poo if you like,' says Miggo. 'She's in charge of the musical score and lyrics. But I'm warning you now, she's in a foul mood.'
'Oh no she isn't,' I rejoin deciding that if you can't beat 'em, it is best to join in the whole pantomime spirit.
Mrs Miggins gives me one last, very serious look.
'No, she really is. Definitely a job for the reinforced gloves. Look, she's behind you.'
And so the sun continues to beat down on my poor overheated brain. They say it's going to last a few more days yet. I suspect it may go on a lot longer than that.
Friday, 26 June 2009
The Danger Zone
There was danger of random sitting and staring occuring today. After a week of Shakepeare and Stratford, of hops and golf courses, self-build dreams re-ignited and the building of a bistro bar for the Dowager House in the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, Andy sat in the kitchen this morning looking BORED OUT OF HIS MIND!
Did I tell you about the new Dowager House bistro bar? Honestly, our chickens must have the most up-to-date mod con facilities of any hens North of the Equator. Andy decided that Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey needed a hanging chicken feeder and a hanging water 'thing'. (Don't know what the technical term is - 'feeder' seems wrong, 'water feature' a bit pretentious), so he purchased said items and we hung them on the bush that refused to be dug up and is now regrowing. First spot of rain and the feeder filled with water, turning the layers pellets into layers mush, and for some odd reason Miggo and Pumphrey preferred their old water bowl aka my shepherds-pie-for-two dish to the new fangled dangley water 'thing'.
'It's too new fangled,' said Mrs Miggins.
'And dangley,' said Pumphrey who at least had tried drinking from it and got head butted for her efforts.
So Andy set about making a tiny little bistro hut to hang the feeder and fangly dangley water thingy from. It is fully recycled from bits of the old fence. I don't know what the rock is for - some kind of retro bar stool I think, but the girls LOVE it.
'It's tres chic but sort of olde worlde rustic in an American Road House kind of way,' says Miggins, ever the cosmopolitan.
'I like it because it stops the layers pellets turning into layers mush when it rains,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Back to Andy being bored. I was making a cake. I thought, I'm not having Andy standing in the kitchen and staring, especially as I have already caught him making contact with work at least once this week. He needs occupying, I thought.
'Get your lap top and sit at the kitchen table and start writing 'Monumental,' I said. 'And I shall ask you questions about plot and character and when I've made the cake I shall get my laptop and sit opposite you and we can be writers together - HURRAH!'
He didn't really have any choice, poor thing, I can be very determined when I get started.
'Monumental' is the title of a novel that Andy is starting to write.
'What's it about?' I asked. And he told me but I'm not telling you because I don't want to spoil the plot when it is published and you buy it in droves.
'Who is the protagonist?' I said.
'I don't know,' said Andy.
'How does it start?' I said.
'I don't know,' said Andy.
We stared at each other, Andy trying to absorb the inspirational waves I was attempting to send in his direction.
'Stop sitting and staring,' I said. 'Sitting and staring is a dangerous waste of time unless you are being confronted by a mongoose in which case sitting and staring will likely save your life.'
Having checked the kitchen and ascertained the complete absence of mongoose/mongeese/mongi/ mongum (must be the 'STOP MONGOOSE!' spray I've been using - it's like Cillit BANG! only quieter), Andy got on with the writing task in hand.
'Best to use stream of consciousness,' I advised. 'It's the only way when you're stuck in your writing. Just let it all spill out, no questions, no editing, no matter how daft it seems.'
'Like you do in your blog every day?' said Andy.
'Shut your face,' I said.
Did I tell you about the new Dowager House bistro bar? Honestly, our chickens must have the most up-to-date mod con facilities of any hens North of the Equator. Andy decided that Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey needed a hanging chicken feeder and a hanging water 'thing'. (Don't know what the technical term is - 'feeder' seems wrong, 'water feature' a bit pretentious), so he purchased said items and we hung them on the bush that refused to be dug up and is now regrowing. First spot of rain and the feeder filled with water, turning the layers pellets into layers mush, and for some odd reason Miggo and Pumphrey preferred their old water bowl aka my shepherds-pie-for-two dish to the new fangled dangley water 'thing'.
'It's too new fangled,' said Mrs Miggins.
'And dangley,' said Pumphrey who at least had tried drinking from it and got head butted for her efforts.
So Andy set about making a tiny little bistro hut to hang the feeder and fangly dangley water thingy from. It is fully recycled from bits of the old fence. I don't know what the rock is for - some kind of retro bar stool I think, but the girls LOVE it.
'It's tres chic but sort of olde worlde rustic in an American Road House kind of way,' says Miggins, ever the cosmopolitan.
'I like it because it stops the layers pellets turning into layers mush when it rains,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Back to Andy being bored. I was making a cake. I thought, I'm not having Andy standing in the kitchen and staring, especially as I have already caught him making contact with work at least once this week. He needs occupying, I thought.
'Get your lap top and sit at the kitchen table and start writing 'Monumental,' I said. 'And I shall ask you questions about plot and character and when I've made the cake I shall get my laptop and sit opposite you and we can be writers together - HURRAH!'
He didn't really have any choice, poor thing, I can be very determined when I get started.
'Monumental' is the title of a novel that Andy is starting to write.
'What's it about?' I asked. And he told me but I'm not telling you because I don't want to spoil the plot when it is published and you buy it in droves.
'Who is the protagonist?' I said.
'I don't know,' said Andy.
'How does it start?' I said.
'I don't know,' said Andy.
We stared at each other, Andy trying to absorb the inspirational waves I was attempting to send in his direction.
'Stop sitting and staring,' I said. 'Sitting and staring is a dangerous waste of time unless you are being confronted by a mongoose in which case sitting and staring will likely save your life.'
Having checked the kitchen and ascertained the complete absence of mongoose/mongeese/mongi/ mongum (must be the 'STOP MONGOOSE!' spray I've been using - it's like Cillit BANG! only quieter), Andy got on with the writing task in hand.
'Best to use stream of consciousness,' I advised. 'It's the only way when you're stuck in your writing. Just let it all spill out, no questions, no editing, no matter how daft it seems.'
'Like you do in your blog every day?' said Andy.
'Shut your face,' I said.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Doing the Rounds
It takes quite a while to perform the home farming duties at Much Malarkey Manor now, what with the various changes to hen accommodation and the addition of Pandora Trumpet Trousers to the equation.
Up at 6, it's open the South Wing, refill Slocombe/Poo water bowl, check status of food and replenish as necessary. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Then into the North Wing, open up the Dowager Cottage, refill Pumphrey/Miggins water bowl, check status of food and replenish if necessary. Add extra oyster shell and grit for Miggins. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Check hen health - feathers growing, eyes clean and bright, all clucking, all bottoms where they should be. Pick lettuce from Miggins's raised veg bed and add to chicken breakfast.
Water greenhouse plants. Check outdoor plants (Mother Nature is watering them at the moment so that saves me a job.) Pinch out side shoots of tomato plants, pick strawberries from hanging baskets.
Back in doors, it's refill cat water bowl and feed Tybalt and Phoebe. Into my writing room, release Pandora from her sleeping quarters, change litter, feed her kitten food. Chase after Pandora into kitchen as she turns nose up at kitten food in favour of proper grown up cat food. Swap grown up cat food bowl with kitten food bowl. Pandora eats. Phoebe returns for round two breakfast. Swap kitten food bowl for proper grown up cat food bowl. Pandora decides she hasn't had quite enough breakfast so swap grown up cat food bowl for kitten food bowl.
Pause to give back a rub. (Mine, not the cats.)
Tybalt wanders in. He has decided he likes kitten food. Swap kitten food bowl for grown up cat food bowl. Tybalt gives it a sniff and walks off with his nose in the air. Will return later when I've lost track of which bowl is currently available to which cats, in the hope of catching me out and getting the kitten food.
(We play swap the cat food bowls ALL DAY. I'm going to stop describing the whole rigmarole now as I think you've got the gist and are probably getting bored.)
Today was 'stir up the wormery' day. Generally, I find that engaging worms in a discussion about neo-classical art versus the merits of Picasso gets them sufficiently stirred up (the worms' eye view favours Picasso) but thought I ought to do the job properly today. Fetch wormery, don rubber gloves, give it all a good stir to add oxygen, add crushed up egg shells (you should see the size of the teeth on these worms - it's amazing what a bit of added calcium can do) , top off with fresh layer of damp newspaper, chuck in some more waste food (this morning - carrot peelings, a mouldy tomato, broccoli stalk and a couple of tea bags for luck), check sump and replace wormery.
And on top of all this, I am having to plan, very carefully, our meals for the week, nay FOREVER. This is because my brother, who is younger than me, had just been diagnosed with diabetes and has therefore flung me into another dread and fear panic vis a vis my health, Andy's health, everybody's health, we're all going to die, I'll never meet my grandchildren unless our spirits cross in the ether whilst I'm going up to heaven and they are coming down, oh my God, we're all DOOOOOOOOOMED!! I called Heather yesterday who is ill and sounds awful. I said 'Go to the doctor, just so I can be reassured you haven't got dengai fever or however you spell it.' I shall be calling her later today to check she has followed orders and woe betide her if she hasn't.
So I'm trying to make sure Andy and I eat healthy well-balanced meals. I mean, REALLY trying, and not trying for a bit and then giving up and eating cake. Poor Andy. Not only is he highly stressed at work at the moment (I know this because he was on the interwebbly looking at jobs on Monday night and it is a rare thing for him to do this. He also mentioned moving to France again so things must be bad), he can't come home and eat cake for comfort.
'Have a yogurt,' I say, 'or a banana. Bananas are good for potassium which is good for your blood pressure,' but I can see in his eyes that neither yogurt or banana, no matter how much potassium it contains, is no recompense for a slice of chocolate chip and banana cake, or lemon cake, or chocolate fudge cake. It's been like looking at a starving puppy dog.
So here I am at nearly 10 a.m and I haven't even started writing yet. I've been given another book title by the writing genie, which is - 'Merrily, Kissed by An Angel' - which I had to start over the weekend despite 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' being only half complete, because when I get given a title, the writing genie makes me sit down and write, write, write on the back of the new title until I've got at least 3,000 words under the belt, just so I don't lose the idea. (This would make the writing genie tut and sigh and say, 'Am I wasting my breath?') And I must remember to do some more anatomy revision today, too.
My cousin popped in for a visit yesterday. 'Don't you get bored, being at home on your own all day?' she asked.
I nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Up at 6, it's open the South Wing, refill Slocombe/Poo water bowl, check status of food and replenish as necessary. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Then into the North Wing, open up the Dowager Cottage, refill Pumphrey/Miggins water bowl, check status of food and replenish if necessary. Add extra oyster shell and grit for Miggins. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Check hen health - feathers growing, eyes clean and bright, all clucking, all bottoms where they should be. Pick lettuce from Miggins's raised veg bed and add to chicken breakfast.
Water greenhouse plants. Check outdoor plants (Mother Nature is watering them at the moment so that saves me a job.) Pinch out side shoots of tomato plants, pick strawberries from hanging baskets.
Back in doors, it's refill cat water bowl and feed Tybalt and Phoebe. Into my writing room, release Pandora from her sleeping quarters, change litter, feed her kitten food. Chase after Pandora into kitchen as she turns nose up at kitten food in favour of proper grown up cat food. Swap grown up cat food bowl with kitten food bowl. Pandora eats. Phoebe returns for round two breakfast. Swap kitten food bowl for proper grown up cat food bowl. Pandora decides she hasn't had quite enough breakfast so swap grown up cat food bowl for kitten food bowl.
Pause to give back a rub. (Mine, not the cats.)
Tybalt wanders in. He has decided he likes kitten food. Swap kitten food bowl for grown up cat food bowl. Tybalt gives it a sniff and walks off with his nose in the air. Will return later when I've lost track of which bowl is currently available to which cats, in the hope of catching me out and getting the kitten food.
(We play swap the cat food bowls ALL DAY. I'm going to stop describing the whole rigmarole now as I think you've got the gist and are probably getting bored.)
Today was 'stir up the wormery' day. Generally, I find that engaging worms in a discussion about neo-classical art versus the merits of Picasso gets them sufficiently stirred up (the worms' eye view favours Picasso) but thought I ought to do the job properly today. Fetch wormery, don rubber gloves, give it all a good stir to add oxygen, add crushed up egg shells (you should see the size of the teeth on these worms - it's amazing what a bit of added calcium can do) , top off with fresh layer of damp newspaper, chuck in some more waste food (this morning - carrot peelings, a mouldy tomato, broccoli stalk and a couple of tea bags for luck), check sump and replace wormery.
And on top of all this, I am having to plan, very carefully, our meals for the week, nay FOREVER. This is because my brother, who is younger than me, had just been diagnosed with diabetes and has therefore flung me into another dread and fear panic vis a vis my health, Andy's health, everybody's health, we're all going to die, I'll never meet my grandchildren unless our spirits cross in the ether whilst I'm going up to heaven and they are coming down, oh my God, we're all DOOOOOOOOOMED!! I called Heather yesterday who is ill and sounds awful. I said 'Go to the doctor, just so I can be reassured you haven't got dengai fever or however you spell it.' I shall be calling her later today to check she has followed orders and woe betide her if she hasn't.
So I'm trying to make sure Andy and I eat healthy well-balanced meals. I mean, REALLY trying, and not trying for a bit and then giving up and eating cake. Poor Andy. Not only is he highly stressed at work at the moment (I know this because he was on the interwebbly looking at jobs on Monday night and it is a rare thing for him to do this. He also mentioned moving to France again so things must be bad), he can't come home and eat cake for comfort.
'Have a yogurt,' I say, 'or a banana. Bananas are good for potassium which is good for your blood pressure,' but I can see in his eyes that neither yogurt or banana, no matter how much potassium it contains, is no recompense for a slice of chocolate chip and banana cake, or lemon cake, or chocolate fudge cake. It's been like looking at a starving puppy dog.
So here I am at nearly 10 a.m and I haven't even started writing yet. I've been given another book title by the writing genie, which is - 'Merrily, Kissed by An Angel' - which I had to start over the weekend despite 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' being only half complete, because when I get given a title, the writing genie makes me sit down and write, write, write on the back of the new title until I've got at least 3,000 words under the belt, just so I don't lose the idea. (This would make the writing genie tut and sigh and say, 'Am I wasting my breath?') And I must remember to do some more anatomy revision today, too.
My cousin popped in for a visit yesterday. 'Don't you get bored, being at home on your own all day?' she asked.
I nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Bribery and adoption
Yesterday, Andy came home from work bearing a gift from one of the vet nurses, Sarah. Usually, gifts from the nurses to Andy involve some kind of Doctor Who theme, I can't think why. And to be honest, if they could see the contents of our loft - 5% ginormous teddy bears, 1% my wedding dress, 8% stuff Chris has conveniently 'stored', 7% stuff Heather has conveniently 'stored', 79% Doctor Who stuff - then they might not worry so much that he hasn't got a sample of every bit of Doctor Who tat, er.... I mean merchandise, that has ever been created. Still, it's the thought that counts and I like to think that these gifts show how fond the nurses are of Andy and are occasionally sorry for shutting him in cupboards and drawing on his face when he is having a lunchtime nap.
'Guess what this is,' said Andy, waving a padded envelope at me.
'Something to do with Doctor Who?' I said, hazarding a wild guess.
'Ha!' said Andy. 'NO!'
With some trepidation I put my hand in the envelope and pulled out...
...a 'BEWARE OF THE CHICKENS' plaque!
'That's very entertaining,' I said, because it is. It will make a fine decoration for the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, the end where psycho Poo and crackers Slocombe live. Actually, the paired living is going very well. Feathers are regrowing, nerves are calming, and yesterday all four hens were standing on one leg (each, not between them. They never did perfect their chicken pyramid act) against the dividing fence having a preen 'n' clean 'n' chat over the fence session.
'I don't know why they had to install the Berlin Wall here,' I heard Mrs Poo say. 'We get on perfectly well together.'
'Quite,' said Mrs Miggins, 'especially now my bottom has stopped making unexpected appearances.'
'Who's the plaque from?' I asked Andy.
'Sarah,' said Andy. 'The one who is always asking if we'll adopt her.'
'Ah yes,' I said. 'Because of the cakes.'
'I think so,' said Andy.
Occasionally, I make a cake or biscuits for Andy to take into work for his colleagues to share. And on those days he generally comes home and says, 'Sarah says, will we adopt her?' or 'They ate all the cake before I could get a bit,' which is my cue to whip the spare one I made from the cake tin and for Andy to say 'Hurrah!'
It seems a funny criteria on which to base a prospective adoption, whether there is suitable cake and biscuit on offer.
'Tell me, Mrs Flangerhanger, can you make a good Victoria sponge?'
'Yes I can. And my French fancies are much discussed throughout the Parish.'
'Your strange underwear collection is of no concern to me Mrs Flangerhanger, but if your sponge is up to scratch, you may adopt as many children as you like.'
'And have them eat all my cake? Not flippin' likely.'
And what if Sarah is 62 years old and has odd habits like collecting 1970s gonks? I mean, she'll be far too old to re-train to our ways. My mum is 69 and I've been trying to train her away from telling me every detail of my brother's life for years now, because I have no interest whatsoever in what he is doing. (And that's another very long, very complicated story which I shall save for telling when I am wealthy enough to employ a good lawyer.)
So there we are. We are now being bribed into the adoption route with gifts of 'Beware of the Chickens' plaques. What a sorry state of affairs the world has come to. What happened to the good old days of cold hard cash, that's what I want to know.
'Guess what this is,' said Andy, waving a padded envelope at me.
'Something to do with Doctor Who?' I said, hazarding a wild guess.
'Ha!' said Andy. 'NO!'
With some trepidation I put my hand in the envelope and pulled out...
...a 'BEWARE OF THE CHICKENS' plaque!
'That's very entertaining,' I said, because it is. It will make a fine decoration for the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, the end where psycho Poo and crackers Slocombe live. Actually, the paired living is going very well. Feathers are regrowing, nerves are calming, and yesterday all four hens were standing on one leg (each, not between them. They never did perfect their chicken pyramid act) against the dividing fence having a preen 'n' clean 'n' chat over the fence session.
'I don't know why they had to install the Berlin Wall here,' I heard Mrs Poo say. 'We get on perfectly well together.'
'Quite,' said Mrs Miggins, 'especially now my bottom has stopped making unexpected appearances.'
'Who's the plaque from?' I asked Andy.
'Sarah,' said Andy. 'The one who is always asking if we'll adopt her.'
'Ah yes,' I said. 'Because of the cakes.'
'I think so,' said Andy.
Occasionally, I make a cake or biscuits for Andy to take into work for his colleagues to share. And on those days he generally comes home and says, 'Sarah says, will we adopt her?' or 'They ate all the cake before I could get a bit,' which is my cue to whip the spare one I made from the cake tin and for Andy to say 'Hurrah!'
It seems a funny criteria on which to base a prospective adoption, whether there is suitable cake and biscuit on offer.
'Tell me, Mrs Flangerhanger, can you make a good Victoria sponge?'
'Yes I can. And my French fancies are much discussed throughout the Parish.'
'Your strange underwear collection is of no concern to me Mrs Flangerhanger, but if your sponge is up to scratch, you may adopt as many children as you like.'
'And have them eat all my cake? Not flippin' likely.'
And what if Sarah is 62 years old and has odd habits like collecting 1970s gonks? I mean, she'll be far too old to re-train to our ways. My mum is 69 and I've been trying to train her away from telling me every detail of my brother's life for years now, because I have no interest whatsoever in what he is doing. (And that's another very long, very complicated story which I shall save for telling when I am wealthy enough to employ a good lawyer.)
So there we are. We are now being bribed into the adoption route with gifts of 'Beware of the Chickens' plaques. What a sorry state of affairs the world has come to. What happened to the good old days of cold hard cash, that's what I want to know.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Reclaiming my space
'That's it,' I said. 'I've had enough!'
'PMT?' said Mrs Miggins.
'Quite possibly,' I said, 'but that has little bearing on my task of today which will be to reclaim my writing room.'
Now, I know we've been unfortunate to suffer 2 chicken injuries this month, thus necessitating the conversion of a goodly portion of my writing room into a hen hospital, but when I went to take Miggo her breakfast this morning and discovered she'd changed the curtains for Roman blinds, moved the piano and re-alphabetised my collection of playscripts according to title rather than playwright, I decided enough was enough.
'We collected the rabbit hutch from Jane yesterday,' I said. 'So you and Pumphrey will have a new house all to yourselves. This will allow your feathers to return to their former glory, safe from the sneaky beaks of Poo and Slocombe.'
'I ain't no bunny,' said Miggins, huffily.
'I'm not a rabbit,' I corrected.
'I can see that,' said Miggins, 'besides, I like it in here, especially now I've swapped the curtains for Roman blinds. They're far more chic, don't you think?'
I inform Mrs Miggins I care little for chic and she replies that looking at me she isn't surprised. So I get her in a death grip, I mean, pick her up and deposit her outside in the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, on her own because Pumphrey is laying her egg and not available for companionable pottering.
And then I set to reclaiming MY SPACE.
I've missed not having my space for the last three weeks or so. It's made me realise how lucky I am to actually have a space of my own. I've had to write in the kitchen and the living room both of which have unnecessary distractions, namely cake and biscuit in the kitchen and 'The Biggest Loser' in the living room. Also, if I write in the living room I have to sit with the laptop on my lap (I know, I know, that's why it's called a laptop, but this arrangement makes one slump appallingly and if I happen to be wearing my woolly rug, then I have to fight to keep Tybalt off my lap as well, because he loves my woolly rug, it's nice for padding on.) And although the kitchen has a table, it is a pedestal table and I have the very bad habit of sitting at it with my toes bent at awkward angles up the pedestal feet, which I realise has probably contributed to my Achilles tendon injury.
So I spent the first post-swim hour this morning hoovering, polishing, sweeping and removing all chicken related accoutrements from my writing room. It made me happy although I suspect I shall still be finding odd wisps of hay and one or two nibbles of layers pellets here and there for a few more days to come.
Have you see 'The Biggest Loser,' by the way. It has, over the last 4 weeks, become my afternoon TV treat, as long as I've completed at least 2,000 words of Indigo Antfarm. It is on every day between 4 and 5 which is good because it is about that time of day I start flagging, and need a spaced out moment before gaining second wind to get dinner ready and prepare for an evening of witty conversation with Andy. It's a competion between overweight people who are trained to within an inch of their lives with the aim of losing as much weight as possible. From the original 16 who started, there are now 9 left. Fridays are especially exciting because Friday is 'weigh-in' day.
The trainers are called Richard and Angie. Richard is good-humoured and believes in lots of praise. Angie comes from the school of what she calls 'tough love' which involves getting as close to the contestants as possible as shouting at them, telling them how useless they are. It is my belief she is trying to murder them all one by one. Angie is a terrifying person.
The contestants are a very mixed bag. Some I like, some I don't. The one who is annoying me particularly at the moment is called Jamie. He is a big lad, and I mean big, starting the competition at pushing 27 stones. But he is also the BIGGEST whinger EVER! He's had so-called injury after injury, the latest being a sprained ankle which, on his return from a hospital visit, he was plainly disappointed that it wasn't actually broken. Any excuse and he'll use it, putting on a 'poor little me' face to get sympathy when I suspect most of the other contestants want to push his head in a puddle and tell him to shut up and get on with it. He is like all the kids I taught who could never accept responsibility for their lack of effort and their behaviour. It was always someone else's fault if coursework wasn't done, they had no pen with which to write or some other kid's face connected with their fist.
And then there's Mark, who is constantly lambasted by the others for being motivated, focused, honest and successful. Accusations of bossiness, showing off and not letting others win the various challenges that are set fly his way. I don't see these faults in him myself. He knows this competition is a golden opportunity for him to lose weight and he is going to make the most of that opportunity. Nothing wrong with that. I know who I want to win the competition.
But listen to me. 'I haven't done as much writing as I wanted to do these last three weeks,' I said to Andy the other day. 'Because the hens have been in my writing room.' Pathetic. If I was motivated to write, I'd have done so sitting up a pole in a force ten gale, wouldn't I? If you want something enough, then nothing will get in your way.
I've set myself a target. 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' will be complete by the end of August. Every day I shall add another 2,000 words. If I want to carry on being a writer I need to also work part-time so will study every day and get a qualification in aromatherapy so I can set up my business within the next year.
Just do it, I say to myself. Life is not a practice run at something bigger to come. No excuses. Don't go to heaven being the biggest loser.
'PMT?' said Mrs Miggins.
'Quite possibly,' I said, 'but that has little bearing on my task of today which will be to reclaim my writing room.'
Now, I know we've been unfortunate to suffer 2 chicken injuries this month, thus necessitating the conversion of a goodly portion of my writing room into a hen hospital, but when I went to take Miggo her breakfast this morning and discovered she'd changed the curtains for Roman blinds, moved the piano and re-alphabetised my collection of playscripts according to title rather than playwright, I decided enough was enough.
'We collected the rabbit hutch from Jane yesterday,' I said. 'So you and Pumphrey will have a new house all to yourselves. This will allow your feathers to return to their former glory, safe from the sneaky beaks of Poo and Slocombe.'
'I ain't no bunny,' said Miggins, huffily.
'I'm not a rabbit,' I corrected.
'I can see that,' said Miggins, 'besides, I like it in here, especially now I've swapped the curtains for Roman blinds. They're far more chic, don't you think?'
I inform Mrs Miggins I care little for chic and she replies that looking at me she isn't surprised. So I get her in a death grip, I mean, pick her up and deposit her outside in the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, on her own because Pumphrey is laying her egg and not available for companionable pottering.
And then I set to reclaiming MY SPACE.
I've missed not having my space for the last three weeks or so. It's made me realise how lucky I am to actually have a space of my own. I've had to write in the kitchen and the living room both of which have unnecessary distractions, namely cake and biscuit in the kitchen and 'The Biggest Loser' in the living room. Also, if I write in the living room I have to sit with the laptop on my lap (I know, I know, that's why it's called a laptop, but this arrangement makes one slump appallingly and if I happen to be wearing my woolly rug, then I have to fight to keep Tybalt off my lap as well, because he loves my woolly rug, it's nice for padding on.) And although the kitchen has a table, it is a pedestal table and I have the very bad habit of sitting at it with my toes bent at awkward angles up the pedestal feet, which I realise has probably contributed to my Achilles tendon injury.
So I spent the first post-swim hour this morning hoovering, polishing, sweeping and removing all chicken related accoutrements from my writing room. It made me happy although I suspect I shall still be finding odd wisps of hay and one or two nibbles of layers pellets here and there for a few more days to come.
Have you see 'The Biggest Loser,' by the way. It has, over the last 4 weeks, become my afternoon TV treat, as long as I've completed at least 2,000 words of Indigo Antfarm. It is on every day between 4 and 5 which is good because it is about that time of day I start flagging, and need a spaced out moment before gaining second wind to get dinner ready and prepare for an evening of witty conversation with Andy. It's a competion between overweight people who are trained to within an inch of their lives with the aim of losing as much weight as possible. From the original 16 who started, there are now 9 left. Fridays are especially exciting because Friday is 'weigh-in' day.
The trainers are called Richard and Angie. Richard is good-humoured and believes in lots of praise. Angie comes from the school of what she calls 'tough love' which involves getting as close to the contestants as possible as shouting at them, telling them how useless they are. It is my belief she is trying to murder them all one by one. Angie is a terrifying person.
The contestants are a very mixed bag. Some I like, some I don't. The one who is annoying me particularly at the moment is called Jamie. He is a big lad, and I mean big, starting the competition at pushing 27 stones. But he is also the BIGGEST whinger EVER! He's had so-called injury after injury, the latest being a sprained ankle which, on his return from a hospital visit, he was plainly disappointed that it wasn't actually broken. Any excuse and he'll use it, putting on a 'poor little me' face to get sympathy when I suspect most of the other contestants want to push his head in a puddle and tell him to shut up and get on with it. He is like all the kids I taught who could never accept responsibility for their lack of effort and their behaviour. It was always someone else's fault if coursework wasn't done, they had no pen with which to write or some other kid's face connected with their fist.
And then there's Mark, who is constantly lambasted by the others for being motivated, focused, honest and successful. Accusations of bossiness, showing off and not letting others win the various challenges that are set fly his way. I don't see these faults in him myself. He knows this competition is a golden opportunity for him to lose weight and he is going to make the most of that opportunity. Nothing wrong with that. I know who I want to win the competition.
But listen to me. 'I haven't done as much writing as I wanted to do these last three weeks,' I said to Andy the other day. 'Because the hens have been in my writing room.' Pathetic. If I was motivated to write, I'd have done so sitting up a pole in a force ten gale, wouldn't I? If you want something enough, then nothing will get in your way.
I've set myself a target. 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' will be complete by the end of August. Every day I shall add another 2,000 words. If I want to carry on being a writer I need to also work part-time so will study every day and get a qualification in aromatherapy so I can set up my business within the next year.
Just do it, I say to myself. Life is not a practice run at something bigger to come. No excuses. Don't go to heaven being the biggest loser.
Monday, 25 May 2009
The Mad, the Bad and the Chicken to Go...
It appears we may have been too hasty in the pointing of the accusatory finger. In fact, if I had gained better insight into the situation, I would have been wise to don protective handwear before pointing the finger in the first place. It seems, dear blog followers, that the ROGUE chicken in the coop, the shi...er, I mean muck stirrer extraordinaire, the true EVIL MINX might not be Mrs Slocombe after all. Oh no, the swing-o-meter of doom is erring very definitely in the direction of....
...MRS POO!
You see, following Mrs Miggins and her scraped bottom and only having one cage to house injured chickens, we had to release Mrs S from her psychotherapy regime in order to free up bed space for Miggo. Back to the coop Mrs S went and was immediately laid into by Mrs Poo.
'That's okay,' we thought as we supervised the fracas. 'They're just sorting out the pecking order that has been re-established since Mrs S was taken from the equation. This, after all, was part of the plan.' But then it became obvious that Mrs Poo was being more than authoritative or dominant. She was being down-right vicious.
As it was early evening, we needed to make a quick decision. We didn't want to risk Mrs S spending the rest of the evening with Mrs Poo who, it seemed, was intent on drawing blood. So we called our friend Jean and asked to borrow her dog cage as a temporary holding bay for either Poo or Slocombe. Only by this point I was happy for Mrs Poo's holding bay to be a casserole dish. She always has been a bit quick with the beak. You have to be firm when handling her and feeding her from your hand can be regarded as a bit of an extreme sport best avoided if you want to keep the skin on your fingers.
Anyway, we collected the dog cage from Jean. Jean lives by the river and Andy and I are both insanely jealous of her fantastic garden and quirky layout house. We stopped for a quick cuppa and told Jean our theory re: Mrs Poo.
'Would you eat her?' said Jean.
'She's a pet,' said Andy.
'Yes I would,' said I. 'But its only a recent thought.'
Furnished with the cage, we went home. We decided that Mrs Poo should be incarcerated for the night given her sudden cannabilistic tendencies and we wanted to see how Slocombe and Pumphrey got on together before bed-time.
My writing room was rapidly becoming a chicken hotel.
And although Mrs Slocombe tried to annoy Pumphrey by making an occasional jump at her, Mrs Pumphrey's elevated status within the pecking order meant she told her off sufficiently to stop the malarkey but without the vicious streak shown by Mrs Poo.
The following morning, Andy made a more substantial partition fence than the quick mock up we had to hurriedly contruct the day before. Pumphrey and Slocombe had survived the night together and were pottering amicably together. Mrs Poo was placed on the other side of the partition and showed no interest in getting through to Slocombe and Pumphrey although they (idiots!) were keen to get to her. In the afternoon, we opened the partition and it became evident that whilst Slocombe is clearly mad as a box of frogs and will, I feel, always be so, it is Mrs Poo who is the true baddie.
So what do we do? Do we carry on with all four of them, mopping up the occasional injury because these things happen in chicken world and need to be accepted and dealt with accordingly? Do we make Cluckinghen Palace semi-detached with equal facilities at both ends and let the hens live in pairs, because pairs seem to work okay? (And then, whom to pair with who?) Or do we say 'goodbye' to one in a 'one-of-you-must-go-for-the-good-of-the-others' kind of way? And if we go for this option, which one do we re-home? The mad, highly strung feather-plucker or the finger ripper dominator?
('Does that mean we are safe, Mrs Miggins?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I think so,' says Miggins. 'Phew!')
This is where chicken keeping has to be practical, not sentimental. This is where we have to be poultry keepers instead of pet owners. Oh dear. The decision wouldn't be so bad if there were 3 who obviously go on together but the only 2 who can really be trusted together are Miggins and Pumphrey. And in hindsight, which is a wonderful thing, when Mrs Bennett died we should have got a single replacement (which, ironically, would have been our Light Sussex, Mrs Pumphrey)and everything would probably have been fine. But lessons have been learned. And we shall know better next time.
Of course, we could convert Cluckinghen Palace into a block of flats, each hen with their own facilities, the only annoyance they could cause each other being banging on each other's ceilings with their walking sticks and holding late night parties. (See, I'm going mad in my desperation for a solution!). Meanwhile, Mrs Miggins is allowed into the fenced off area for daily exercise whilst her scraped bottom heals because Mrs Poo can't get at her. So that's good. And the whole flock have been put on my healing list with special mention for batty Mrs Slocombe. I know I should give special mention to Mrs Poo, too, if the Universal energies are to be used fairly, but I still can't quite forgive her for attacking Miggo.
So the the only list Mrs Poo is currently on is 'My Favourite Chicken Recipes.'
...MRS POO!
You see, following Mrs Miggins and her scraped bottom and only having one cage to house injured chickens, we had to release Mrs S from her psychotherapy regime in order to free up bed space for Miggo. Back to the coop Mrs S went and was immediately laid into by Mrs Poo.
'That's okay,' we thought as we supervised the fracas. 'They're just sorting out the pecking order that has been re-established since Mrs S was taken from the equation. This, after all, was part of the plan.' But then it became obvious that Mrs Poo was being more than authoritative or dominant. She was being down-right vicious.
As it was early evening, we needed to make a quick decision. We didn't want to risk Mrs S spending the rest of the evening with Mrs Poo who, it seemed, was intent on drawing blood. So we called our friend Jean and asked to borrow her dog cage as a temporary holding bay for either Poo or Slocombe. Only by this point I was happy for Mrs Poo's holding bay to be a casserole dish. She always has been a bit quick with the beak. You have to be firm when handling her and feeding her from your hand can be regarded as a bit of an extreme sport best avoided if you want to keep the skin on your fingers.
Anyway, we collected the dog cage from Jean. Jean lives by the river and Andy and I are both insanely jealous of her fantastic garden and quirky layout house. We stopped for a quick cuppa and told Jean our theory re: Mrs Poo.
'Would you eat her?' said Jean.
'She's a pet,' said Andy.
'Yes I would,' said I. 'But its only a recent thought.'
Furnished with the cage, we went home. We decided that Mrs Poo should be incarcerated for the night given her sudden cannabilistic tendencies and we wanted to see how Slocombe and Pumphrey got on together before bed-time.
My writing room was rapidly becoming a chicken hotel.
And although Mrs Slocombe tried to annoy Pumphrey by making an occasional jump at her, Mrs Pumphrey's elevated status within the pecking order meant she told her off sufficiently to stop the malarkey but without the vicious streak shown by Mrs Poo.
The following morning, Andy made a more substantial partition fence than the quick mock up we had to hurriedly contruct the day before. Pumphrey and Slocombe had survived the night together and were pottering amicably together. Mrs Poo was placed on the other side of the partition and showed no interest in getting through to Slocombe and Pumphrey although they (idiots!) were keen to get to her. In the afternoon, we opened the partition and it became evident that whilst Slocombe is clearly mad as a box of frogs and will, I feel, always be so, it is Mrs Poo who is the true baddie.
So what do we do? Do we carry on with all four of them, mopping up the occasional injury because these things happen in chicken world and need to be accepted and dealt with accordingly? Do we make Cluckinghen Palace semi-detached with equal facilities at both ends and let the hens live in pairs, because pairs seem to work okay? (And then, whom to pair with who?) Or do we say 'goodbye' to one in a 'one-of-you-must-go-for-the-good-of-the-others' kind of way? And if we go for this option, which one do we re-home? The mad, highly strung feather-plucker or the finger ripper dominator?
('Does that mean we are safe, Mrs Miggins?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I think so,' says Miggins. 'Phew!')
This is where chicken keeping has to be practical, not sentimental. This is where we have to be poultry keepers instead of pet owners. Oh dear. The decision wouldn't be so bad if there were 3 who obviously go on together but the only 2 who can really be trusted together are Miggins and Pumphrey. And in hindsight, which is a wonderful thing, when Mrs Bennett died we should have got a single replacement (which, ironically, would have been our Light Sussex, Mrs Pumphrey)and everything would probably have been fine. But lessons have been learned. And we shall know better next time.
Of course, we could convert Cluckinghen Palace into a block of flats, each hen with their own facilities, the only annoyance they could cause each other being banging on each other's ceilings with their walking sticks and holding late night parties. (See, I'm going mad in my desperation for a solution!). Meanwhile, Mrs Miggins is allowed into the fenced off area for daily exercise whilst her scraped bottom heals because Mrs Poo can't get at her. So that's good. And the whole flock have been put on my healing list with special mention for batty Mrs Slocombe. I know I should give special mention to Mrs Poo, too, if the Universal energies are to be used fairly, but I still can't quite forgive her for attacking Miggo.
So the the only list Mrs Poo is currently on is 'My Favourite Chicken Recipes.'
Friday, 22 May 2009
Flippin' chicken
And now Mrs Miggins has a scraped bottom. Don't know the whys, hows or wherefores but I do know that Mrs Poo finds it fascinating in a let's keep pecking it kind of way. So this morning, at 6.30, it was into the gardens of Cluckinghen Palace, grab Miggo, upend Miggo, bathe Miggo, anto-biotic Miggo, spray Miggo with gentian violet and anti-peck spray and then rig up a temporary fence to separate her from Poo whilst scraped bottom calms down and no longer looks like a tempting hors d'oevres.
Two purple panted chickens and one stubbly mad chicken. I am beginning to feel like a bad chicken owner.
Anyway, with Mrs Miggins segregated and sunflower seeds and greenery scattered generously on both sides of the partition, Andy went to work and I went swimming. On my return, I find three chickens on one side of the partition and no chickens on the other. Mrs Poo has a purple beak. I have no idea how Miggo got in with the others. There is no sign of fence wreakage or holes dug under fences or suspicious looking ladders.
'You've been pecking Mrs Miggins, haven't you?' I say, crossly.
'How can you tell?' says Poo
So I sit in the garden and observe to see if it is safe to allow them to stay altogether. I start doing chicken algebra.
Take a = Miggo, b=Pumphrey c=Poo and d= Slocombe. Pecking order factor 1=top, 2=bottom 3=minds their own business. Risk mix factor is x= good, y=tolerable z= disaster on a stick. Thus a3+b3= x. c1+d2= y and b3+ d2= z. a3+b3 divided by c1 minus d2 seemed to be working okay until incident bs (bottom scrape) but now carries risk factor y/z potential.
P=partition. So, if p is entered into the equation, potentially d2 could be re-integrated and z adverted if my theory that a3+b3 balances out c1+d2 is correct. 3+3=6. 1+2=3. So z=x divided by 2 (or half or 50%). Or is it double, not half?
Aaaaarrgghhhh!!! These chickens are doing my head in. Mrs Miggins isn't helping matters by presenting her bottom to Mrs Poo.
'Look!' she says. 'I have purple pants, too.'
Luckily, no blood has been drawn.
And I found a dead sparrow by the front door. What's all that about?
Meanwhile, Guy has arrived to do the fence for the courtyard garden as it is now pretentiously known. There is much drilling and banging going on. I'm expecting a call for tea in a moment but am being guided by the hammering and when it starts flagging I'll put the kettle on. I'm not having tea. I've decided, after 43 years, to take up alcohol. And possible smoking, too.
I've started a list of names for our bees when we get them. I thought I'd get a head start because there will be about 50,000 of them. So far I have the following:
1) Bee One, Cos I'm One Too
2)Bee Two Bee Do Bee Do
3)Bee Three, As Three as a Bird
4)Bee Four You Say Goodbye
5) Bee F'ive Got a Crush on You
Pass the gin and in the words of Blackadder, you'll find me standing on a bucket with a frog pinned to my lapel, saying 'bibble' in the Venetian fashion.
Two purple panted chickens and one stubbly mad chicken. I am beginning to feel like a bad chicken owner.
Anyway, with Mrs Miggins segregated and sunflower seeds and greenery scattered generously on both sides of the partition, Andy went to work and I went swimming. On my return, I find three chickens on one side of the partition and no chickens on the other. Mrs Poo has a purple beak. I have no idea how Miggo got in with the others. There is no sign of fence wreakage or holes dug under fences or suspicious looking ladders.
'You've been pecking Mrs Miggins, haven't you?' I say, crossly.
'How can you tell?' says Poo
So I sit in the garden and observe to see if it is safe to allow them to stay altogether. I start doing chicken algebra.
Take a = Miggo, b=Pumphrey c=Poo and d= Slocombe. Pecking order factor 1=top, 2=bottom 3=minds their own business. Risk mix factor is x= good, y=tolerable z= disaster on a stick. Thus a3+b3= x. c1+d2= y and b3+ d2= z. a3+b3 divided by c1 minus d2 seemed to be working okay until incident bs (bottom scrape) but now carries risk factor y/z potential.
P=partition. So, if p is entered into the equation, potentially d2 could be re-integrated and z adverted if my theory that a3+b3 balances out c1+d2 is correct. 3+3=6. 1+2=3. So z=x divided by 2 (or half or 50%). Or is it double, not half?
Aaaaarrgghhhh!!! These chickens are doing my head in. Mrs Miggins isn't helping matters by presenting her bottom to Mrs Poo.
'Look!' she says. 'I have purple pants, too.'
Luckily, no blood has been drawn.
And I found a dead sparrow by the front door. What's all that about?
Meanwhile, Guy has arrived to do the fence for the courtyard garden as it is now pretentiously known. There is much drilling and banging going on. I'm expecting a call for tea in a moment but am being guided by the hammering and when it starts flagging I'll put the kettle on. I'm not having tea. I've decided, after 43 years, to take up alcohol. And possible smoking, too.
I've started a list of names for our bees when we get them. I thought I'd get a head start because there will be about 50,000 of them. So far I have the following:
1) Bee One, Cos I'm One Too
2)Bee Two Bee Do Bee Do
3)Bee Three, As Three as a Bird
4)Bee Four You Say Goodbye
5) Bee F'ive Got a Crush on You
Pass the gin and in the words of Blackadder, you'll find me standing on a bucket with a frog pinned to my lapel, saying 'bibble' in the Venetian fashion.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Mrs Pumphrey is unwell
Poor Mrs Pumphrey. Poor, poor Mrs Pumphrey.
'Once more for effect,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'because I am quite poorly.'
'Okay,' I say, 'but don't push it, eh? Ahem...poor, poor, poor Mrs Pumphrey.'
Yesterday evening, as I was taking some lemon buns from the oven and casting an occasional glance through the kitchen window at the chickens pottering in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace, I noticed Mrs Pumphrey was missing. She'd been hanging around the pod earlier and I thought 'She must be having an early night,' which is most unlike her because she, of all the girls, can be a bit of a dirty stop out sometimes.
Anyway, I popped out to check on her, just in case she'd managed to escape. The hens had been a bit excitable all day because of the wind (atmospheric, not personal), and earlier I had spotted Mrs Pumphrey on top of the gazebo eyeing up the distance to the top of the fence for jumpability.
'Are you there, Pumphrey?' I called. A forlorn head stuck out from the pod. Followed by a forlorn red and white body.
'Red and white?' I thought. 'Not Mrs Pumphrey's usual colour combination.' And then I realised. She is covered in blood!
All chaos ensued!
'Poor me,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'm telling the story, thank you,' I say. 'Kindly keep your sympathetic embellishments to yourself.'
Anyway, Andy and I rush to the rescue. Mrs Pumphrey, as you know, will not be caught easily on account of her being allergic to human beings. We lured her into the pod with some apple.
'Cheap trick,' says Pumphrey.
'It worked,' I say. 'And we took her inside to assess the injury.'
'Poor me,' says Pumphrey.
It seems that in her wild episode of flinging herself about earlier in the day, she must have caught herself on something in the Palace grounds. The upshot is, is that she has got a nasty hole under her wing. So off to hospital (aka a cat basket in the kitchen) she went.
The wound was cleaned and dressed and antibiotics administered via the medium of apple.
'I can't believe I fell for the apple trick again,' sighs Pumphrey. 'Pass me some sunflower seeds will you? I am, after all quite poorly.' We also gave her a good squirt with anti-peck spray. Just in case.
And then she was settled in my writing room with a towel over the cat basket (which had also been fitted with roosting bars, water bowl and food bowl. Admittedly, this didn't leave much room for Pumphrey but she is coping admirably well) for the night.
This morning, Mrs Pumphrey is calm and seemingly happy in her cat box. She has had a bowl of water, some sunflower seeds, corn, layers pellets, greens and cucumber and she pooped on Andy's shirt and socks whilst we were tending to her wound. But a decision had to be made.
What next?
She can't go outside with the others whilst the wound is open. Firstly, there is the danger of flies. Secondly, there is the danger of Mrs Slocombe who will have a field day with the injury and because Mrs Pumphrey isn't the brightest hen in the coop, she will stand there and let her. So this morning I am off to find a large pet cage which will be used as a hen ward for a week or so. And when Pumphrey is better, we have a cunning plan involving the cage, Mrs Slocombe, a collar and curing a feather pecking habit. But ssshhhhhh. Don't say anything to her about it just yet.
'I want nice curtains,' says Pumphrey. 'And en-suite facilities. And a bowl of fruit on my bed-side table. And a telly and a phone and DVD player so I can catch up on my watching of 'All Creatures Great and Small.' Apparently, there is a character in the series who is named after me.'
'How about a small nest box for egg laying?' I say. (I had put some straw in the corner of the cat box just in case she needed a nest area.)
Mrs Pumphrey looks at me, askance. Well, about as askance as a chicken can manage.
'Eggs?' she says. 'You expect me to lay EGGS?? I AM injured you know. I am convalescing. Pass me a grape. No pips.'
'Oh,' I say.
'There is an old chicken saying,' says Pumphrey, reaching for a copy of Hello! magazine and adjusting her mohair bed jacket. 'It goes - 'An injured chicken is a grumpy girl. You won't get an egg until she's better.'
'Well,' I correct, because I think that would be a more appropriate rhyme.
'Well what?' says Pumphrey.
I sigh. It's going to be a long week...
(Update: Mrs Pumphrey is making small sqeaky noises and flinging straw all over the place. Despite the old chicken saying, I think an egg might be on its way.)
'Once more for effect,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'because I am quite poorly.'
'Okay,' I say, 'but don't push it, eh? Ahem...poor, poor, poor Mrs Pumphrey.'
Yesterday evening, as I was taking some lemon buns from the oven and casting an occasional glance through the kitchen window at the chickens pottering in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace, I noticed Mrs Pumphrey was missing. She'd been hanging around the pod earlier and I thought 'She must be having an early night,' which is most unlike her because she, of all the girls, can be a bit of a dirty stop out sometimes.
Anyway, I popped out to check on her, just in case she'd managed to escape. The hens had been a bit excitable all day because of the wind (atmospheric, not personal), and earlier I had spotted Mrs Pumphrey on top of the gazebo eyeing up the distance to the top of the fence for jumpability.
'Are you there, Pumphrey?' I called. A forlorn head stuck out from the pod. Followed by a forlorn red and white body.
'Red and white?' I thought. 'Not Mrs Pumphrey's usual colour combination.' And then I realised. She is covered in blood!
All chaos ensued!
'Poor me,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'm telling the story, thank you,' I say. 'Kindly keep your sympathetic embellishments to yourself.'
Anyway, Andy and I rush to the rescue. Mrs Pumphrey, as you know, will not be caught easily on account of her being allergic to human beings. We lured her into the pod with some apple.
'Cheap trick,' says Pumphrey.
'It worked,' I say. 'And we took her inside to assess the injury.'
'Poor me,' says Pumphrey.
It seems that in her wild episode of flinging herself about earlier in the day, she must have caught herself on something in the Palace grounds. The upshot is, is that she has got a nasty hole under her wing. So off to hospital (aka a cat basket in the kitchen) she went.
The wound was cleaned and dressed and antibiotics administered via the medium of apple.
'I can't believe I fell for the apple trick again,' sighs Pumphrey. 'Pass me some sunflower seeds will you? I am, after all quite poorly.' We also gave her a good squirt with anti-peck spray. Just in case.
And then she was settled in my writing room with a towel over the cat basket (which had also been fitted with roosting bars, water bowl and food bowl. Admittedly, this didn't leave much room for Pumphrey but she is coping admirably well) for the night.
This morning, Mrs Pumphrey is calm and seemingly happy in her cat box. She has had a bowl of water, some sunflower seeds, corn, layers pellets, greens and cucumber and she pooped on Andy's shirt and socks whilst we were tending to her wound. But a decision had to be made.
What next?
She can't go outside with the others whilst the wound is open. Firstly, there is the danger of flies. Secondly, there is the danger of Mrs Slocombe who will have a field day with the injury and because Mrs Pumphrey isn't the brightest hen in the coop, she will stand there and let her. So this morning I am off to find a large pet cage which will be used as a hen ward for a week or so. And when Pumphrey is better, we have a cunning plan involving the cage, Mrs Slocombe, a collar and curing a feather pecking habit. But ssshhhhhh. Don't say anything to her about it just yet.
'I want nice curtains,' says Pumphrey. 'And en-suite facilities. And a bowl of fruit on my bed-side table. And a telly and a phone and DVD player so I can catch up on my watching of 'All Creatures Great and Small.' Apparently, there is a character in the series who is named after me.'
'How about a small nest box for egg laying?' I say. (I had put some straw in the corner of the cat box just in case she needed a nest area.)
Mrs Pumphrey looks at me, askance. Well, about as askance as a chicken can manage.
'Eggs?' she says. 'You expect me to lay EGGS?? I AM injured you know. I am convalescing. Pass me a grape. No pips.'
'Oh,' I say.
'There is an old chicken saying,' says Pumphrey, reaching for a copy of Hello! magazine and adjusting her mohair bed jacket. 'It goes - 'An injured chicken is a grumpy girl. You won't get an egg until she's better.'
'Well,' I correct, because I think that would be a more appropriate rhyme.
'Well what?' says Pumphrey.
I sigh. It's going to be a long week...
(Update: Mrs Pumphrey is making small sqeaky noises and flinging straw all over the place. Despite the old chicken saying, I think an egg might be on its way.)
Sunday, 26 April 2009
End-of-the-Week News
Nettle beer update: Yesterday, Andy decanted his nettle beer into wine bottles. All six litres of it. Andy reckons it looks like dishwater. Last night, one of the bottles expelled its cork across the room. I reckon it could be pretty potent stuff. I shall be sending Andy for an eye test after he has finished drinking it.
Allotmenteering : on the plot first thing this morning before Andy knew what was happening to plant out pea seedlings, runner bean seedlings (I say 'seedling'. Most of them are a foot tall) and start clearing the space in readiness for polytunnel construction. We have a new friend at the allotment. His name is Julian and he is a blackbird. And, oooh, isn't he bold?? He comes right up to you and stares with his beady blackbird eye. I could have reached out and patted him on the head with my trowel this morning. I nearly did, too, because he had a beak full of slug.
'Take your slug away,' I said. 'Don't you be dropping slugs near my newly planted pea and bean seedlings.'
'Mmmmfffhhmfffmppphhhh,' said Julian.
'Aaaargghhhh! Save me!' yelled the slug.
Bees: Our friend, Jean, popped in for coffee this morning. During general chatter we did some accidental bartering whereby we got another compost bin, some flower pots and a big bunch of canes and string in exchange for some strawberry plants, seed potatoes and tomato plants when they are a bit bigger. Jean has also offered to bring slugs, snails and cabbage leaves for the chickens. 'I'd thought about bringing them before and leaving them by your back gate,' she said. 'Only I didn't want you to think you were being stalked by some weirdo with a cabbage and mollusc fixation.'
Jean has also offered part of her huge garden as a site for our bee hive. We are very tempted to take her up on this offer. Very tempted indeed. The bee-keeping plan is becoming way over-due in its implementation.
Running: This week I am going to start psyching myself up to start the running programme proper. In preparation for this, my left leg has developed a pain that stretches from the middle of my calf down to the outside of my ankle. I think this is from excessive digging this week, so at the lottie this morning I took special care to dig with my right foot instead, in a sort of cross-legged need-to-go-to-the-loo-motion.
'What ARE you doing?' said Andy, in fond admiration of my yogic contortions. (Either that or he was trying not to laugh.)
'Saving my left leg for jogging,' I said.
'And mucking up the right one in the process?' he said.
'I feel it's important to maintain a balance,' I said.
Cooking: Now Heather has returned to university, I have to remember to cook for two instead of three. Or four, for the time when Chris was still living at home. I anticipate there will be excess foodage this week whilst I adjust so if anyone wants to pop in for dinner, please do. There will be plenty.
Greenhouse: having shipped out the peas and runner beans this morning, there is now space for part 2 planting which will be more beans (French), sweetcorn, lettuce and late leeks. The coriander has gone from being virtually non-existent to rampant in 3 days flat and I'm not sure what to do with it now so will need to research next stage coriander growing. The parsley, too, is doing extremely well and has just started to go curly. My Auntie Nece, who visited this week from Scotland, said 'If parsley flourishes in a garden it means the woman is the dominant partner in the house,' and she gave me a bit of knowing look. I think she was trying to say, in the nicest possible way, that I'm a bossy moo.
Chickens : Mrs Miggins's erratic, weird-shaped, flimsy and broody egg-laying seems to be subsiding and she's getting back to normal. Well, about as normal as a chicken can be, given that they are quite the most beserk creatures I've ever looked after in my life.
Cats : we still have two cats. I have a few names lined up for any others that drift our way...
...and that's about it.
Like Mrs Miggins's 'plant 'n' kickabout raised vegetable bed', (which is doing very well, even if it is a bit difficult to decipher what is coming up where. Carrots, peas, kale, radish, lettuce, it's all in there, jostling for position) this week has been an eclectic mix of the normal and bizarre. Still, we muddled through, the sun is shining and no doubt the world is waiting to present more opportunities and challenges in the week to come.
I'm off to make crumble now, for tonight's pudding. Rhubarb up one end for me, apple up the other for Andy. A bit of an odd combination, maybe, but rubbing along side by side in sweet counterpoint nonetheless.
Allotmenteering : on the plot first thing this morning before Andy knew what was happening to plant out pea seedlings, runner bean seedlings (I say 'seedling'. Most of them are a foot tall) and start clearing the space in readiness for polytunnel construction. We have a new friend at the allotment. His name is Julian and he is a blackbird. And, oooh, isn't he bold?? He comes right up to you and stares with his beady blackbird eye. I could have reached out and patted him on the head with my trowel this morning. I nearly did, too, because he had a beak full of slug.
'Take your slug away,' I said. 'Don't you be dropping slugs near my newly planted pea and bean seedlings.'
'Mmmmfffhhmfffmppphhhh,' said Julian.
'Aaaargghhhh! Save me!' yelled the slug.
Bees: Our friend, Jean, popped in for coffee this morning. During general chatter we did some accidental bartering whereby we got another compost bin, some flower pots and a big bunch of canes and string in exchange for some strawberry plants, seed potatoes and tomato plants when they are a bit bigger. Jean has also offered to bring slugs, snails and cabbage leaves for the chickens. 'I'd thought about bringing them before and leaving them by your back gate,' she said. 'Only I didn't want you to think you were being stalked by some weirdo with a cabbage and mollusc fixation.'
Jean has also offered part of her huge garden as a site for our bee hive. We are very tempted to take her up on this offer. Very tempted indeed. The bee-keeping plan is becoming way over-due in its implementation.
Running: This week I am going to start psyching myself up to start the running programme proper. In preparation for this, my left leg has developed a pain that stretches from the middle of my calf down to the outside of my ankle. I think this is from excessive digging this week, so at the lottie this morning I took special care to dig with my right foot instead, in a sort of cross-legged need-to-go-to-the-loo-motion.
'What ARE you doing?' said Andy, in fond admiration of my yogic contortions. (Either that or he was trying not to laugh.)
'Saving my left leg for jogging,' I said.
'And mucking up the right one in the process?' he said.
'I feel it's important to maintain a balance,' I said.
Cooking: Now Heather has returned to university, I have to remember to cook for two instead of three. Or four, for the time when Chris was still living at home. I anticipate there will be excess foodage this week whilst I adjust so if anyone wants to pop in for dinner, please do. There will be plenty.
Greenhouse: having shipped out the peas and runner beans this morning, there is now space for part 2 planting which will be more beans (French), sweetcorn, lettuce and late leeks. The coriander has gone from being virtually non-existent to rampant in 3 days flat and I'm not sure what to do with it now so will need to research next stage coriander growing. The parsley, too, is doing extremely well and has just started to go curly. My Auntie Nece, who visited this week from Scotland, said 'If parsley flourishes in a garden it means the woman is the dominant partner in the house,' and she gave me a bit of knowing look. I think she was trying to say, in the nicest possible way, that I'm a bossy moo.
Chickens : Mrs Miggins's erratic, weird-shaped, flimsy and broody egg-laying seems to be subsiding and she's getting back to normal. Well, about as normal as a chicken can be, given that they are quite the most beserk creatures I've ever looked after in my life.
Cats : we still have two cats. I have a few names lined up for any others that drift our way...
...and that's about it.
Like Mrs Miggins's 'plant 'n' kickabout raised vegetable bed', (which is doing very well, even if it is a bit difficult to decipher what is coming up where. Carrots, peas, kale, radish, lettuce, it's all in there, jostling for position) this week has been an eclectic mix of the normal and bizarre. Still, we muddled through, the sun is shining and no doubt the world is waiting to present more opportunities and challenges in the week to come.
I'm off to make crumble now, for tonight's pudding. Rhubarb up one end for me, apple up the other for Andy. A bit of an odd combination, maybe, but rubbing along side by side in sweet counterpoint nonetheless.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
A Complete Year of Chicken
We have been hen-keepers for a full year now. Last April, Mrs Bennett and Mrs Miggins arrived and took up residence in our lush, green of grass back garden. Then Mrs B, bless her, went to chicken heaven and in late October Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Polovitska (aka Mrs Poo) arrived and turned the last of the grass to mud.
But it's okay because in less than a year these 5 hens have provided us with 616 eggs (yes, I have been keeping count) which isn't bad going especially as Pumphrey, Poo and Slocombe didn't join in the laying until 5 months ago. We have learned a lot from our hens. We are au fait with chicken lady bits and chicken moods. We have discovered how chickens behave -like loonies, generally, althought they aren't nearly as bird-brained as the saying would have you believe. We know what they like (lettuce, grapes, pasta, swinging on the garden swing, trips in limousines and Jimmy Choo shoes) and what they don't (pigeons, rain, bare bottoms when the March winds are blowing and Alistair Darling because of his scary eyebrows).
And now Mrs Miggins is entering her second season, we are learning what happens to hens as they grow older. Of course, if Mrs Miggins was misfortunate enough to be a battery chicken, she would have been dispatched for cat food by now because she is more than a year old. Instead, she is free to continue living her life and displaying 'older chicken' behaviour.
Two things I have noticed about Miggo. One is broodiness and two is peculiar eggs.
'What's wrong with my eggs?' says Miggo.
'Well,' I say, thinking carefully because I don't want to offend my best girl and the eggs are still excellent for eating, 'they are starting to look rather, er, novel these days, aren't they?'
'Meaning?' says Miggo.
'Meaning, well, the unusual shapes, for example,' I say, thinking about the one I collected this morning which wouldn't have looked out of place in a potato sack.
'It's art,' says Mrs Miggins. 'As you get older, you gain freedom from the perfection of youth. You can start being a bit more creative.'
'And eggcentric?' I say.
'Don't start making egg jokes,' Mrs Miggins warns.
'And does this art eggtend to the texture of the shells?' I continue, foolishly ignoring her warning.
Miggo's egg shells have taken on a chalky consistency. I've upped the amount of grit and oyster-shell in her feed, which she carefully picks out and discards.
'Yes,' says Miggo. 'I have been experimenting with a variety of textures. Gritty, mosaic, bobbles, fur...'
'Fur?' I say. 'I haven't found any furry eggs.'
'I only experimented once with fur,' Miggo admits, 'it was a bit tickly coming out and I don't want you humans thinking laying an egg every day is a laughing matter.'
'And you've been a bit erratic with your ovulation these last two weeks,' I say. 'Two one day, nothing for another two, then regular, then nothing again...'
'You're a fine one to lecture on erratic ovulation,' huffs Miggo. 'I can't help it, can I? Unless you want to get me a course of HRT?'
'HRT?'
'Hen Rejuvenation Therapy,' she says. 'It's by L'oeufreal' and it's very expensive but I'm worth it.'
And recently there have been a couple of occasions when I've gone to collect the eggs and have had to prise Mrs Miggins from the nest where she has been crouching over them like a ginger hovercraft, clucking motherly and giving me a bit of a warning look as I open the pod.
'What are you doing?' I asked when I saw her do this for the first time.
'I'm having babies,' she said. 'So kindly close the pod and come back in three weeks.'
'You are not having babies,' I said, rooting under her tummy for the eggs. 'You need a cock to have babies.'
'That's a common pre-feminist myth,' snapped Miggo. 'Shame on you, daughter of the Thatcher revolution.'
Blimey, I think, retreating but not without the day's eggs, she is turning broody and then some.
And just to finish, here is a piccie of the eggs of today. I'll let you decide which is the work of art...
But it's okay because in less than a year these 5 hens have provided us with 616 eggs (yes, I have been keeping count) which isn't bad going especially as Pumphrey, Poo and Slocombe didn't join in the laying until 5 months ago. We have learned a lot from our hens. We are au fait with chicken lady bits and chicken moods. We have discovered how chickens behave -like loonies, generally, althought they aren't nearly as bird-brained as the saying would have you believe. We know what they like (lettuce, grapes, pasta, swinging on the garden swing, trips in limousines and Jimmy Choo shoes) and what they don't (pigeons, rain, bare bottoms when the March winds are blowing and Alistair Darling because of his scary eyebrows).
And now Mrs Miggins is entering her second season, we are learning what happens to hens as they grow older. Of course, if Mrs Miggins was misfortunate enough to be a battery chicken, she would have been dispatched for cat food by now because she is more than a year old. Instead, she is free to continue living her life and displaying 'older chicken' behaviour.
Two things I have noticed about Miggo. One is broodiness and two is peculiar eggs.
'What's wrong with my eggs?' says Miggo.
'Well,' I say, thinking carefully because I don't want to offend my best girl and the eggs are still excellent for eating, 'they are starting to look rather, er, novel these days, aren't they?'
'Meaning?' says Miggo.
'Meaning, well, the unusual shapes, for example,' I say, thinking about the one I collected this morning which wouldn't have looked out of place in a potato sack.
'It's art,' says Mrs Miggins. 'As you get older, you gain freedom from the perfection of youth. You can start being a bit more creative.'
'And eggcentric?' I say.
'Don't start making egg jokes,' Mrs Miggins warns.
'And does this art eggtend to the texture of the shells?' I continue, foolishly ignoring her warning.
Miggo's egg shells have taken on a chalky consistency. I've upped the amount of grit and oyster-shell in her feed, which she carefully picks out and discards.
'Yes,' says Miggo. 'I have been experimenting with a variety of textures. Gritty, mosaic, bobbles, fur...'
'Fur?' I say. 'I haven't found any furry eggs.'
'I only experimented once with fur,' Miggo admits, 'it was a bit tickly coming out and I don't want you humans thinking laying an egg every day is a laughing matter.'
'And you've been a bit erratic with your ovulation these last two weeks,' I say. 'Two one day, nothing for another two, then regular, then nothing again...'
'You're a fine one to lecture on erratic ovulation,' huffs Miggo. 'I can't help it, can I? Unless you want to get me a course of HRT?'
'HRT?'
'Hen Rejuvenation Therapy,' she says. 'It's by L'oeufreal' and it's very expensive but I'm worth it.'
And recently there have been a couple of occasions when I've gone to collect the eggs and have had to prise Mrs Miggins from the nest where she has been crouching over them like a ginger hovercraft, clucking motherly and giving me a bit of a warning look as I open the pod.
'What are you doing?' I asked when I saw her do this for the first time.
'I'm having babies,' she said. 'So kindly close the pod and come back in three weeks.'
'You are not having babies,' I said, rooting under her tummy for the eggs. 'You need a cock to have babies.'
'That's a common pre-feminist myth,' snapped Miggo. 'Shame on you, daughter of the Thatcher revolution.'
Blimey, I think, retreating but not without the day's eggs, she is turning broody and then some.
And just to finish, here is a piccie of the eggs of today. I'll let you decide which is the work of art...
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Toyz 4 Henz
Okay, I admit it. I finally succumbed to snailicide. I'm not ashamed. I feel the need to feed my hens wholesome protein (especially the floppy-combed one a.k.a Mrs Slocombe) far outweighed the protestations of Andy and Heather that it was not the done thing to assist snails from their shells by bashing them with a hammer. On the day we brought the snail mass back from the allotment and after watching the girls' ineffectual attempts to persuade the snails to be eaten, I crept into Cluckinghen Palace when no-one was looking.
'Gather round,' I said to the hens. We all huddled around the half-a-paving slab that sitting next to the food bowl.
'Now,' I said. 'Watch carefully. This is what you do.' And, with the hens all watching intently and taking notes, I selected a snail from the box, placed it on the sacrificial stone and gave it a whallop with a rock. So strictly speaking I didn't use a hammer. The snail immediately spread itself over a wide and flat area and Mrs Slocombe leapt forward and ran off with the spoils.
'So that's how it's done,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Not sure how we're supposed to hold a rock in our feet though.'
'Shall I crack open a few more for you?' I said. 'Or perhaps you'd prefer them sauteed in garlic butter and served with wholemeal toast?'
'If you wouldn't mind,' said Miggins.
I'm not sure which one of us would win in a sarcasm throwing competition but I bet it would be a pretty close thing...
It's difficult not to look furtive when squatting around a paving stone with four chickens bashing snails to death with a rock and I was soon rumbled. I could tell Andy wasn't wholly keen on my actions but I remain resolute. If the hens need protein via the medium of freshly crushed snail, then that is what they shall have. As long as I never hear the screams...
So Andy has now got a great idea. When picking up fresh pet food supplies yesterday he noticed that whilst your cat/dog/rabbit/budgie are all well provided for in the pet toy department, there is NOTHING for your pet chicken.
'I am going to develop a range of toys for chickens,' he announced. 'And I shall start with a little hat onto which will be attached a tiny hammer. Chickens will be able to wear the "hammer hat" and bash their own snails.'
'I was hoping they might work out how to use their beaks,' I said.
Andy laughed. 'Where's the fun in that?' he said. 'No, the "HammerHat" is the way to go.'
He then went on to suggest he make a human-size version for me to wear at trade fairs for demonstration purposes. I made a few suggestions of my own regarding husbands cooking their own dinners if they made their wives wear silly "HammerHatz 4 Henz' (as they are now known) in public.
And then I had an idea of my own.
'How about this,' I said. 'Get a salad spinner,' (I had to stop at this point to explain to Heather what a salad spinner was. She seemed impressed so that's this year's Christmas present for her sorted), 'and fill it with dust. Get the hen to climb inside and then turn the handle vigorously. Instant chicken dustbath!!'
Andy and Heather looked at me, open-mouthed in admiration at this stroke of creative genius.
'Actually,' said Andy, 'we are staring open-mouthed because what you've just suggested it possibly not a very nice thing to do to a chicken.'
'They'll love it,' I say. 'It'll be like Alton Towers only cheaper and without the queues. Think of the adrenaline rush they'll get.'
'I can think of plenty of other things they'll get, too,' said Andy. 'Now, back to my 'HammerHatz for Henz...'
So there we go. That's how we are going to make our millions. Toys for chickens.
No laughing at the back, please.
'Gather round,' I said to the hens. We all huddled around the half-a-paving slab that sitting next to the food bowl.
'Now,' I said. 'Watch carefully. This is what you do.' And, with the hens all watching intently and taking notes, I selected a snail from the box, placed it on the sacrificial stone and gave it a whallop with a rock. So strictly speaking I didn't use a hammer. The snail immediately spread itself over a wide and flat area and Mrs Slocombe leapt forward and ran off with the spoils.
'So that's how it's done,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Not sure how we're supposed to hold a rock in our feet though.'
'Shall I crack open a few more for you?' I said. 'Or perhaps you'd prefer them sauteed in garlic butter and served with wholemeal toast?'
'If you wouldn't mind,' said Miggins.
I'm not sure which one of us would win in a sarcasm throwing competition but I bet it would be a pretty close thing...
It's difficult not to look furtive when squatting around a paving stone with four chickens bashing snails to death with a rock and I was soon rumbled. I could tell Andy wasn't wholly keen on my actions but I remain resolute. If the hens need protein via the medium of freshly crushed snail, then that is what they shall have. As long as I never hear the screams...
So Andy has now got a great idea. When picking up fresh pet food supplies yesterday he noticed that whilst your cat/dog/rabbit/budgie are all well provided for in the pet toy department, there is NOTHING for your pet chicken.
'I am going to develop a range of toys for chickens,' he announced. 'And I shall start with a little hat onto which will be attached a tiny hammer. Chickens will be able to wear the "hammer hat" and bash their own snails.'
'I was hoping they might work out how to use their beaks,' I said.
Andy laughed. 'Where's the fun in that?' he said. 'No, the "HammerHat" is the way to go.'
He then went on to suggest he make a human-size version for me to wear at trade fairs for demonstration purposes. I made a few suggestions of my own regarding husbands cooking their own dinners if they made their wives wear silly "HammerHatz 4 Henz' (as they are now known) in public.
And then I had an idea of my own.
'How about this,' I said. 'Get a salad spinner,' (I had to stop at this point to explain to Heather what a salad spinner was. She seemed impressed so that's this year's Christmas present for her sorted), 'and fill it with dust. Get the hen to climb inside and then turn the handle vigorously. Instant chicken dustbath!!'
Andy and Heather looked at me, open-mouthed in admiration at this stroke of creative genius.
'Actually,' said Andy, 'we are staring open-mouthed because what you've just suggested it possibly not a very nice thing to do to a chicken.'
'They'll love it,' I say. 'It'll be like Alton Towers only cheaper and without the queues. Think of the adrenaline rush they'll get.'
'I can think of plenty of other things they'll get, too,' said Andy. 'Now, back to my 'HammerHatz for Henz...'
So there we go. That's how we are going to make our millions. Toys for chickens.
No laughing at the back, please.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Slugs 'n' Snails 'n' Slow Worm Tails
Allotment day. The mists hang heavy across the land; the air hangs humid with er, humidity. We need to get the rest of the potatoes in and move the storage bin before the arrival of the polytunnel. Optimistically, I thought I'd take some seeds to plant (beetroot - red and yellow- carrots, spinach, spring onion and kale) but one look at the old compost heap that rose like a citadel and was in need of flattening tells me seed planting will have to wait.
We march our plot and check the crops. The Jerusalem artichokes are sprouting, the raspberries are putting on much leafage. And the gooseberries have gone from sad little twigs to lush bushes with a hint of tiny flowers appearing. The first potatoes we planted are poking foliage above the ground and need earthing up. The onions are shooting green javelins toward the sky and the shallots resemble the hairstyles of Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street. I pull some rhubarb from last year's plant which is going wild with growth now I've removed the flowers. We allocate tasks. Andy to plant potatoes and clear away old brassicas, me to dig over the old compost heap and level it with rest of plot ready for planting. Andy to move storage bin to other end of plot, me to help him if it looks like he might collapse mid-move.
All is quiet, all is calm as we start work. Then...
'OMIGOD!!!!' yells Andy.
'WHAT?' I yell.
'SNAILS!' yells Andy back. And he's right. In lifting the wooden pallet the storage bin has been standing on, he has revealed a colony of about three hundred snails. Tall ones, short ones, some as big as your head.
'We'll take them back for the chickens,' I declare, throwing snails enthusiatically into a box.
Back to work. Then...
'EEEEEK!'
That was me.
'WHAT?' yells Andy.
'SNAKE!' I yell back. Actually, it's a slow worm. A BIG slow worm. Now, slow worms are a protected species and you aren't supposed to disturb them. However, I have inadvertently disturbed this one by flinging it across the diameter of the compost heap during my vigorous digging efforts. So I rescue it and relocate it to the new compost heap. I just hope the slow-worm police don't come after me for this transgression. Nor for the second one when I discover its mate in a similar fashion.
During the digging, I suffer my first two insect bites of the season. That'll be me itching and puffy for a week now. Still, I'm better off than the insect that bit me. That's dead.
After three hours we decide to go home. The snails in the box have made several attempts to escape. It's like they know what their fate is to be. Psychic snails.
At home, we take the box of snails into Cluckinghen Palace and place it reverently on the ground, waiting for the hens to launch themselves enthusiatically at this heaving pile of fresh protein.
'What's that?' asks Poo, suspiciously.
'Slugs with houses,' says Miggins. 'I've seen 'em before. They're a bugger to eat.'
'Well, I'm going to give them a go,' says Slocombe, 'because you know how hard it is for me to assimilate protein and I need all I can get.'
Mrs Slocombe selects possibly the tiniest snail from the box. She spends at least five minutes swinging it around by its head, bashing it against wood chippings, small stones and other chickens. In fact, all four of the hens race each other around the play area in pursuit of cracking open this one tiny snail. Behind them, the other 99 snails we've brought home are making fast their escape. Andy is sitting on the swing bench laughing like a loon at our idiot hens.
I want to get a hammer and smash the snail shells open for the chickens so they can have easier access.
'NO!' yell Andy and Heather in unison. 'That's cruel!'
I have no idea when my husband and daughter became members of the Snail Preservation Society. I mean, I haven't seen them wearing badges or anything. But it's 2 against 1 so I may have to wait until nightfall before I sneak out into the garden with my hammer...
We march our plot and check the crops. The Jerusalem artichokes are sprouting, the raspberries are putting on much leafage. And the gooseberries have gone from sad little twigs to lush bushes with a hint of tiny flowers appearing. The first potatoes we planted are poking foliage above the ground and need earthing up. The onions are shooting green javelins toward the sky and the shallots resemble the hairstyles of Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street. I pull some rhubarb from last year's plant which is going wild with growth now I've removed the flowers. We allocate tasks. Andy to plant potatoes and clear away old brassicas, me to dig over the old compost heap and level it with rest of plot ready for planting. Andy to move storage bin to other end of plot, me to help him if it looks like he might collapse mid-move.
All is quiet, all is calm as we start work. Then...
'OMIGOD!!!!' yells Andy.
'WHAT?' I yell.
'SNAILS!' yells Andy back. And he's right. In lifting the wooden pallet the storage bin has been standing on, he has revealed a colony of about three hundred snails. Tall ones, short ones, some as big as your head.
'We'll take them back for the chickens,' I declare, throwing snails enthusiatically into a box.
Back to work. Then...
'EEEEEK!'
That was me.
'WHAT?' yells Andy.
'SNAKE!' I yell back. Actually, it's a slow worm. A BIG slow worm. Now, slow worms are a protected species and you aren't supposed to disturb them. However, I have inadvertently disturbed this one by flinging it across the diameter of the compost heap during my vigorous digging efforts. So I rescue it and relocate it to the new compost heap. I just hope the slow-worm police don't come after me for this transgression. Nor for the second one when I discover its mate in a similar fashion.
During the digging, I suffer my first two insect bites of the season. That'll be me itching and puffy for a week now. Still, I'm better off than the insect that bit me. That's dead.
After three hours we decide to go home. The snails in the box have made several attempts to escape. It's like they know what their fate is to be. Psychic snails.
At home, we take the box of snails into Cluckinghen Palace and place it reverently on the ground, waiting for the hens to launch themselves enthusiatically at this heaving pile of fresh protein.
'What's that?' asks Poo, suspiciously.
'Slugs with houses,' says Miggins. 'I've seen 'em before. They're a bugger to eat.'
'Well, I'm going to give them a go,' says Slocombe, 'because you know how hard it is for me to assimilate protein and I need all I can get.'
Mrs Slocombe selects possibly the tiniest snail from the box. She spends at least five minutes swinging it around by its head, bashing it against wood chippings, small stones and other chickens. In fact, all four of the hens race each other around the play area in pursuit of cracking open this one tiny snail. Behind them, the other 99 snails we've brought home are making fast their escape. Andy is sitting on the swing bench laughing like a loon at our idiot hens.
I want to get a hammer and smash the snail shells open for the chickens so they can have easier access.
'NO!' yell Andy and Heather in unison. 'That's cruel!'
I have no idea when my husband and daughter became members of the Snail Preservation Society. I mean, I haven't seen them wearing badges or anything. But it's 2 against 1 so I may have to wait until nightfall before I sneak out into the garden with my hammer...
Sunday, 17 August 2008
Chicken Out? Chickens in...
Traumatised by the Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall 'Chicken Out' series of programmes broadcast over the New Year, Denise and Andy decided that, having been brave new allotmenteers for the previous year, the obvious next step in their 'How green can we go?' campaign was to become chicken guardians. 'Guardian' being the operative word. You might think that you own the chickens, but they, like cats, have other ideas.
In order to fund the chicken project, one of the two family cars had to go. 'Get rid of the Fiat,' says Denise. 'I'll walk to and from work. It's only a couple of miles. I'll improve my fitness, too.' The cats snigger behind their paws in the face of her bravado. 'Are you sure?' asks Andy, knowing how quickly Denise can turn from the Cookie Monster to Oscar the Grouch when she's soaked with rain. 'Oh, yes,' replies Denise, blithely waving her hand and muttering about umbrellas, buses, lifts from charitable work colleagues etc etc.
Denise realises now, from grim experience, the discomfort of walking home in a long skirt, after getting caught in a monsoon and completing a two mile hike with wet fabric flapping around her legs. And don't even mention the soaking undies.
BUT....by then it was TOO LATE. The car is sold, the chicken house, run and feed purchased and guest accommodation is open. First enquiry is from Mrs Bennett and Mrs Miggins, genteel ladies, both seeking laying position in domestic environment. 'Shall this position suit our requirements, Mrs Miggins?' enquires Mrs Bennett of her travelling companion. 'As long as there are pies available,' replies Mrs Miggins. (Fans of Blackadder will grasp this intertextual allusion immediately; non-fans have some research to do. Denise shall be checking you've done your homework next blog.)
Misses' Bennett and Miggins have been in residence for four months now. 'How does it suit us?' Mrs Bennett enquires of Mrs Miggins this very morning as they undulate gracefully back and forth on the garden swing. 'Well, Mrs Bennett, we have wrecked the borders, ransacked the greenhouse, played many a game of velociraptor on what is left of the lawn and they feed us grapes and sunflower seeds. I think, ' she says, dropping a big poop through the swing onto the patio, 'it suits us very well. Despite the lack of pies.'
In order to fund the chicken project, one of the two family cars had to go. 'Get rid of the Fiat,' says Denise. 'I'll walk to and from work. It's only a couple of miles. I'll improve my fitness, too.' The cats snigger behind their paws in the face of her bravado. 'Are you sure?' asks Andy, knowing how quickly Denise can turn from the Cookie Monster to Oscar the Grouch when she's soaked with rain. 'Oh, yes,' replies Denise, blithely waving her hand and muttering about umbrellas, buses, lifts from charitable work colleagues etc etc.
Denise realises now, from grim experience, the discomfort of walking home in a long skirt, after getting caught in a monsoon and completing a two mile hike with wet fabric flapping around her legs. And don't even mention the soaking undies.
BUT....by then it was TOO LATE. The car is sold, the chicken house, run and feed purchased and guest accommodation is open. First enquiry is from Mrs Bennett and Mrs Miggins, genteel ladies, both seeking laying position in domestic environment. 'Shall this position suit our requirements, Mrs Miggins?' enquires Mrs Bennett of her travelling companion. 'As long as there are pies available,' replies Mrs Miggins. (Fans of Blackadder will grasp this intertextual allusion immediately; non-fans have some research to do. Denise shall be checking you've done your homework next blog.)
Misses' Bennett and Miggins have been in residence for four months now. 'How does it suit us?' Mrs Bennett enquires of Mrs Miggins this very morning as they undulate gracefully back and forth on the garden swing. 'Well, Mrs Bennett, we have wrecked the borders, ransacked the greenhouse, played many a game of velociraptor on what is left of the lawn and they feed us grapes and sunflower seeds. I think, ' she says, dropping a big poop through the swing onto the patio, 'it suits us very well. Despite the lack of pies.'
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