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.