The girls are back in town

Prising my eyes open this morning clutching my coffee, I was somewhat surprised to see a man in a Land Rover and trailer pull up in the drive. Not only did the man in the aforementioned vehicle pull up, but he reversed to the gate, did a cursory check of the field and then there was messing about behind, where I could not see. The trailer started rocking and then, suddenly - there were four cows! 

Rummy, perked up beside me and started growling. He was completely unimpressed by this event. The sight of four cows galloping round a new field is quite something. For large creatures they don't half shift.

I had to see to the velociraptors and was a bit wary of interrupting the ladies' inspection of their new home. The coop is tucked away at the top, but actually in the field. Z's gardener, a man of few words and sly wit suggested that "you can run fast, can't you?"

Indeed. As he has previously noted, I am not a country girl.

The velociraptors were markedly subdued when I went in with their breakfast. The rooster, kept an eye out on these new neighbours. I retrieved the eggs and made it out safely again without incident. And if you think that I'm being unnecessarily wary...cows are very big. It doesn't do to startle them.

Remembering tales of Big Pinkie, I went and reinforced the human gate with a belt of mine. It wasn't quite as sturdy as I'd like. I no longer believe wide innocent eyes. I don't particularly want to be chasing after four cows around the village. It's bad enough trying to herd chickens.

Transitional Issues

That's pretty much how I sum up the last couple of months. I had great plans for my productivity at the beginning of February and they have pretty much come to naught. I did not anticipate the level of fatigue I experienced, nor did I fully appreciate the impact of a lack of time table.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't spent all my time in front of the TV or Kindle, though there have been a few days when that has been the case. I've mostly been busy. It's hard not to be busy out here. There's wood and coal to be hauled, meals to be prepared, food to be purchased, laundry to be washed and of course, the general tidying and cleaning up. Oh yes, I've also been completing the first part of my training. 

I realised from the 4,000 or so words I'd initially written that there was a lot I had to re-learn. I'd lost touch with my creativity. To rectify this I went out and bought a plethora of artist's materials: paints, brushes, paper etc. and Dave, bless his generous heart, added to my collection as well. I've been painting and colouring and this week, I've even started writing poetry again.

For me writing poetry is a discipline. Every word has to justify its existence and work hard to propel the poem forward. This feeds into my writing. Why say in one page, what can be said in a paragraph? No, I'm not writing literary fiction. I'm writing genre and that requires the story move at a sharp clip, with pithy descriptions and a canny use of space to give the reader the specific experience they are looking for. I am blessed in that my friend, awesome poet and poetry tutor Julia Webb, is helping me get back in touch with that long-dormant part of myself.

Speaking of long-dormant parts of myself, did I mention I've joined a Shiny Gym? After an unsuccessful attempt at trying to find a functional-focused gym, I gave into the inevitable and joined the local Shiny Gym. My path back into fitness is not a happy one, it has to be said. 

Physically, I've lost a lot of ground, which is bad enough. Unfortunately, my wrists are still weak and an ill-executed attempt at a push-up buggered my right wrist. Not to mention that the inactivity has caused my knee and lower back to start playing up. Mentally, it's even more of a struggle. It's a Shiny Gym. The patrons are Shiny, fit and thin. I joined and couldn't face going for a couple of weeks. In the end, I booked some PT sessions, just so I could have someone hold my hand to get me going again. By the way, this isn't to do with their judging me, this is about what I imagine them to be thinking about me. I am working hard to remind myself that I have to start from where I am, not from where I would prefer to be. I want to push it. But right now, actually getting to the gym is pushing it for me. 

It seems that the traditional method of goal setting (keep goal in the forefront of your mind, set milestones and targets) just doesn't work for me. Rather, I am focusing on where I want to be eventually and doing today what I can to get me there. My Life is now pointing in the direction I want to go, it's time to do the work. If I think about it in terms of building a house, rather than a journey, I've built the foundations. I know roughly what it will look like in the end, now I'm focusing on getting the framework built. Being fitter and more creative is part of this framework. It's important for me to be more physically robust, there are things I want to do, that I am not able to do right now and being more creative feeds into my writing. 

I suppose I'm a little bit frustrated by my supposed lack of progress. I'm aware I could have pushed myself harder. It's true I would have more words by now. It's also true that the 4,000 words I wrote earlier are probably all going to be binned. I need quality now. Ultimately, I must work within my limits, even if it takes a little bit longer.

Holding the fort

This is how Z described it while she's on Granny duties. In truth it's more a cross between baby-sitting and crowd control.

I've been tasked with looking after the chickens and the tots (Anastasia and Natasha - Russian Tortoises).

While the tots are content with basking in the glow of their heat lamp, eating copious amounts of lambs lettuce and swilling vodka doing their traditional Russian dancing, the chickens are another matter completely.

They lulled me into a false sense of security. Sunday evening they milled about the chicken pen innocently, pecking at the ground; they ate their dinner and went to bed without any bother. Yesterday morning however, they put their plans into action. I greeted them as normal, "Morning ladies." They ignored me and huddled together. I opened the door and a little black hen made a break for it.

Okay, I thought. I'll deal with you in a bit. I've looked after small children, I know how to prioritise my battles. The others merely watched as I filled their grain bowls, gave them a couple of bananas and some bread. Meanwhile, the little black hen taunted me from outside.

Fine, I thought. I'll deal with you now. I opened the door to go out.

The chickens rushed me en masse. They squeezed in between my legs and the door and that was that; they were out and free as, well, birds. They taunted me. It's true as God is my witness. They taunted me. 

I've looked after small children, I know how to prioritise my battles. 

I left them to it. They spent the day, scratching and pecking outside. I popped my head up every now and then to make sure they were alright. They were. In fact, it was wonderful to see them wandering around, scratching under hedges, squabbling over stuff. A lady pheasant even joined them for awhile. The cockerel is full of himself, as you'd expect. He struts around, looking all important trying to boss the hens. He doesn't take it too badly that they mostly ignore him. 

Late in the afternoon, I knew it was time to prepare for battle. After all, I've looked after small children, I know when I've got a battle on my hands. I girded my loins.

If you come across the little known fact that chickens are direct descendants of dinosaurs...believe it. It's totally true. Steven Spielberg knew what he was on about. The little buggers. I ended up having to herd them in several batches. 

When I got to the pen, there were some who decided it was getting close to bedtime and why the hell was I late with dinner? Then there was the majority of the group who wanted me to work a bit; to make it clear that they were only coming in because my antics had amused them enough and they felt sorry for me. Plus, they fancied a bit of bread before bed.

Then there was the cockerel and two of his co-conspirators. They'd decided to do a Peter Rabbit and see if Z had planted anything worth eating in greenhouse. Thankfully, they were a few weeks early. As far as I could make out, only God knows how they got into the walled garden, because when it came to it, the chickens sure as hell wouldn't get out the same way.

In the end, I had to herd the three chickens, one at a time back into the pen. Each calling me names under their breath as I waved my arms about. If it wouldn't have been for the fact there's been a fox that's been thinning the flock, I'd have been tempted to let them stay out. I was supposed to be in Norwich to meet up with a friend, I apologised profusely for being late.

I suppose as excuses go, "I was herding chickens" was at least different.

I learnt my lesson. This morning I just let them straight out. We all pretended that was what I wanted to do in the first place.