Tuesday 19 May 2009

Hold a chicken in the air

Rare and shocking? Yes. Easy for me to admit? No. Safe to blog about? Who knows but here goes: He-who-must-be-adored was right. That’s twice in our marriage. Obviously I’ve not told Him. That would not do. He might start questioning my ‘rightness’ on other matters. That would be a step too far. He almost never reads this so I’m sure I’m safe in admitting it here. I'm worried this is the start of something ugly.

I overruled his desire (as is my wont) to purchase Peckingham Palace. Our Chook Coop looked plenty big enough in the shop (huge in fact). As did the space we spent ages digging and slabbing and fox-proofing. Kebab and Clucky moved in and now it looks…well piddly is the only word for it. The guilt has set in and He-who-must-be-adored has built them a daytime run at more expense. Slowly, He is clearing an even bigger space and designing something approximating half the garden. Well, the dustbin lids can go to the park, chickens can’t. I'm ignoring my guilt about not listening to He in the first place.

Still, once built the new huge thang should cut down on time corralling them into their holiday home. That’s partly why there’s not been much blogaction. Spare time is needed for chicken watch, whilst sometimes simultaneously playing on my i-phone.

Clucky, we think, is older as her comb is almost full grown but it’s definitely Kebab who rules the roost. Boy is she feisty. After happily pecking and scratching, she suddenly turns, takes a half flying leap at poor Clucky, with loud chook-chook-chooking and wing flapping, before just as suddenly going back to her business of eating my plants. Am keeping the fear that Kebab is a psycho chick to myself. Then again, the size of their heads doesn’t allow much space for a brain. This shows in their behaviour. The first night we fretted like new parents as they had to be persuaded to go up the ramp to bed. In the morning they were inelegantly pushed down for breakfast. It only took them three days to get the point. After that whenever they heard the voice of He-who-must-be-adored they ran up the ramp at full pelt. Perhaps not so dumb afterall?

Kebab and clucky are too young to lay eggs. And, by my calculations the average cost of the first year’s eggs will be roughly £50 each. Luckily we’re not in it for the money. We just love the whole idea of country living – whilst firmly settled in London with all mod-cons like the tube and John Lewis. The little-un and I pretend we live in the sticks with our little veggy patch and chickens. We spend ages shooing the latter from the former. I accept a lot of poop, scooping, smelly beasts and dog hair. Lots of dog hair. Well, ‘tis easier to surrender and accept than to drive myself mad with cleaning and moaning. My head is full of animals facts - the latest being the power of chook bedding for good composting. Wonder is my former personality dead in the water?

Yet, I do have other topics of conversation: The dry ole patch didn’t last that long. He-who-must-be-adored is no longer bone dry, but then neither is he as sodden as he was. And The Teenager has my full sympathy for her rugby-injured-writing-hand when she has a GCSE exam. My sympathy is only wearing a wee bit thin from time waiting at the GP’s (one hour) and Casualty (under three hours), only to be shown the teeniest tiny bit of floating bone. Wonder how long the wait will be to see the ‘bone guy’ tomorrow?

Off outside now for more chook action.

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