Chickens in a box

It is my firm belief, that as parents it's our responsibility to give our offspring every opportunity possible to experience new things and learn, so that they can make decisions around what they're interested in and enjoy, and what they don't. So rugby, football and judo all fell by the wayside, but tennis and boxing are going strong. William is also just about to start Duke of Edinburgh, which I hope will be an amazing experience for him, although sometimes it does feel a bit like dragging a horse to water with no expectation that it will actually drink. To the Exchange. The rationale  I went on a French exchange when I was 12 and got on brilliantly with the girl I was paired with. In the dim and distant past when I was young, there were no mobile phones, you just got parachuted over to Bagnols sur Ceze and left for a fortnight. I do remember my heart sinking as I contemplated my first ever French meal; rabbit casserole followed by rice pudding and jam. Both DISGUSTI...

Grape finally breathed her last. And moments later, Mitzi was up on her perch looking for her lost friends. What to do with a lone chicken? I put the question to my PubClub and GymBunnies WhatsApp groups respectively, and the consensus was unanimous - you can't rehome a chicken. They just get pecked to death by the new flock you've introduced them to. Same scenario if you introduce a new 'friend' to the incumbent bird. As a last resort I drove down to Marsh Benham to see my Chicken Man, who agreed with the WhatsApp groups - Mitzi had to go. He kindly offered to do the honours the following day. Out of options and feeling very forlorn, I agreed to drop her round after I'd had my hair done.  But then....then next day...just as I was getting my highlights done...the phone rang. It was a friend of a PubClub friend; "Is your chicken still alive?" Asked the friend. "Because if it's not too late, I'd like to take her." A few hours later ...

The four namesakes of my blog are steadily departing this mortal coil. We lost Peaches some time ago; discovered one morning, petrified and stiff in the pen after a brief life as a feral hen, roaming the shrubberies and roosting in the trees. I'm going with Sudden Chicken Death Sydrome. MotMot slowed down so much that she stopped altogether. Poor Grape is currently hanging on by a thread but I fear she will ultimately follow in MotMot's footsteps to the Great Chicken Coop in the Sky. With the temperature down to -5 or less at night, I've put her in a box in the kitchen so that at least she can die in peace and warmth. So far Dolly hasn't noticed, or I suspect her departure would be speeded up considerably. Eddie has kindly made the 'poultry shears motion', offering his own alternative path to a quick death. Mitzi is the last hen standing. Bravely holding her own out there in the frosty garden, but worried about Grape, who she usually clucks around supporti...

Why did I think this was a good idea? I've never felt so awful in my life. Every morning I wake up feeling as though I've been clubbing all night. I've lost NO weight and have spots.

Ding Dong! The Builder is fired. Which old Builder? The incompetent Builder down the road! Ding Dong! The Builder is fired. Wake up - sleepy head, rub your eyes, get out of bed. Wake up, the Builder has gone. He's gone where the goblins go, Below - below - below. Yo-ho, let's open up and sing and ring the bells out. Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low. Let them know The useless Builder's been fired! "As Resident of the Square, In the County of Berkshire, I welcome you most warmly." "But we've got to verify it legally, to see." "To see?" "If he..." "If he?" "Is morally, ethic'lly." "Spiritually, physically." "Positively, absolutely." "Undeniably and reliably. Fired" "As your Lawyer I must aver, I thoroughly examined his work. And he's not only merely fired, he's really most sincerely useless....