Chicken Shenanigans

The morning of the 6th December 2016, I was tucked up in bed, considering the day ahead, when I got a text from Dave. Before I could formulate a coherent reply (remember mornings are not my strength), he rang me with worrying news.

DEFRA (the Department of the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs) issued a declaration, effective immediately regarding the outbreak of a strain of avian flu (H5N8) on the continent. In order to protect poultry flocks in the UK from the virus, everyone with poultry, whatever the size of flock, were advised to keep their birds indoors or take measures to cover their outdoor enclosures to limit their contact with any wild birds that may be carrying or infected. The original housing order was well-worded and encouraged poultry owners to be sensible about their flocks' housing arrangement. 

Z immediately suggested I move my velociraptors into her greenhouse that's standing empty until seed planting time. This I did. My flock had been in for a couple of days already with the foul weather and were glad to stretch out and explore their new accommodation. Unfortunately, their pleasure lasted until the evening of that day, when they waited patiently for me to come and get them to take them home. They were unimpressed when they had to sleep there and the next morning made their displeasure known. They spent a less than happy fortnight there. It got to the stage where they were so pissed off with me, they stopped laying, ran away when they saw me, and then went off their food.

After my adventures with red mite over the summer, I had intended to upgrade their housing in the spring anyway. I'd had my eye on a plastic coop that would cope with being flushed and scrubbed within an inch of its life once a week. Despite Z's assurances that they would eat and they would forgive me (eventually), I changed my plan and ordered their new home. I missed them so much. I hated that they were unhappy and weren't in the garden milling around and making noise. The decision made, I placed the order, then fetched my flock home. They spent a couple of days in my greenhouse. 

I can't tell you how good it was to have them back. We immediately made friends again...until 3.15 the next morning. When they first stayed in the greenhouse, they were little and Jenga hadn't started crowing. During the summer, when Dave was convalescing here, he used a small, hand-held noise monitor to discover that Jenga giving it large was 86 decibels per crow, enough to have the local council slap an ASBO (anti-social behavioural order) on him. 

Jenga is an early riser. He wakes up, has a stretch and calls for the sun five or six times in row, then he rests for about half an hour or so and has another go. I was unimpressed. The next morning he was more considerate and toned it down a bit. I was grateful, but still considered getting ear plugs. 

Happily, their new Eglu Go Up! arrived. By the way, if ever you wonder why I adore Dave to the extent I do...he put the various bits that arrived in five different boxes, without violence to my person. There was quite a lot of muttering under his breath but frankly, considering the complete nightmare of flat pack assembly, he was very reserved.

I see flat pack instructions and they immediately translate themselves into Mandarin or Malay. I can't do it. If someone shows me how to put it together, I am perfectly capable of copying them, but to do it cold...bad things tend to happen. Dave is really good at translating written instructions for me and I'm very good at getting the different bits together and passing the right tool at the right time. I am also brilliant at getting out the way at the part where something needs hitting with a bigger hammer and making tea. I'm also brilliant at plastering up gouged, sliced and hurty bits.

Dave surveying the results of his hard work

Their Eglu comes with wheels, so we can move it around the grass every few days to protect the garden and give them something new to nibble. Chickens love their greens. It's a brilliant coop. Big enough that they can have space to move around, their sleeping quarters has ingenious doors which once they're tucked in at night, are predator proof.

My velociraptors are happier and that's all that matters. (You'll notice I said "ier").

Chickens checking out their new feeders

As far as avian flu is concerned, I think the measures are reasonable considering the risk to poultry. Not long after the poultry housing order was issued, a farm in North Lincolnshire lost 5,000 turkeys to the wretched virus. Those birds that hadn't succumbed had to be culled. It must have been awful for the farmers. I'm sure there is financial support, but even so; to lose 5,000 birds that's terrible. After that, there were a couple of cases in Devon and Scotland, but when a backyard flock in Wales came down with it, I knew my flock would be in for the duration. 

This week, DEFRA announced the extension of the housing order until the end of February. Dave was increasingly uncomfortable with just the top being covered over and so yesterday we covered over the run completely. As it is, my flock don't mind, it keeps the wind off of them.

This summer, I'd gotten into the habit of feeding the multitudes of birds that live around here. I started with fat balls on the damson tree, then peanuts, fat slabs on the lilac and then sunflower seeds on the cherry tree. Then the local pheasants figured out that I shook out the chickens' feeder every day and started visiting regularly. A pheasant in a cherry tree eating sunflower seeds out of a feeder meant for finches is quite a sight. I started throwing an extra handful of food out for them. 

Given DEFRA's guidelines are to limit wild birds mingling with kept, I had to change the arrangements. The feeders have been moved to a tree outside of my garden, in Z's orchard and I started feeding the pheasants under the hedge opposite my kitchen window. When we asked people who knew about such things, they felt it was better to keep the wild birds well fed, to ensure they were robust enough to fight off any infection. The only problem has been that word got around and I've gone from feeding maybe four or five pheasant hens to ten or eleven hens and two or three cocks! 

I now have inside pets, garden pets and outside pets. And they all make out that I don't care and never feed them! If I'm late with the pheasants' breakfast they mill around staring pointedly at me from under the hedge. When I call they come running as fast as their legs can carry them. I adore them so much. I'm so pleased no one is allowed to shoot them on Z's land. They're so sweet. 

All in all, things have settled down and we're just waiting it out. Some people have suggested that DEFRA have been over-enthusiastic with their reaction. I disagree. Given that many peoples' livelihood depends on their poultry, anything that can be done to mitigate the cross-infection, is wise. Also, I'd be heartbroken if my flock took ill. They're my pets and I love them to bits. Hopefully, this is all there will be of this and we won't have to speak of it again.

Two tales about chickens

Things here are...well...challenging. I've responded by doing what I do best: hiding. I've become a little turtle pulled into my shell which for the most part has worked quite well. But I miss blogging. So here are two things my lot did, that had me roaring with laughter.

1.
I think I told you Jenga discovered sex? He decided that he wants his three ladies and as many hens from Z's flock as he can get away with. Unfortunately for him, Cocky (his dad) has his number. When both flocks are out and about, I've seen them interact fairly reservedly. They puff out their chests, bob heads and then back off to chase hens. 

A couple of days ago, I went out to get them back in. I wasn't surprised to see my hens at the bottom of the garden, they like hanging about there to try and get into the walled garden to dig through compost heap, it's a veritable cornucopia if you're a hen. Z's flock were in their coop watching Jenga and Cocky have a set-to.

I've never seen anything like it. The two of them were bouncing up and down, feet flinging about, shouting rooster insults. It would have been quite worrying had there not been the wire between the two of them.

Jenga is the Scrappy-Do of the chicken world. Daft bugger. He's all big and brave when there's a fence between him and Cocky, but knows not to push it too far if they're out and about.

I know Z's concerned that they might kick off properly one day and I'm certainly keeping an eye on my boy. But damn, watching the two of them perfectly mirrored in bouncing, made me laugh. And by the way, roosters curse worse than sailors.

Polly & Scrabble 

Canasta & Jenga

2.
The first time Jenga displayed this behaviour, I thought he was being daft as a brick, but Z explained it and now it makes perfect sense. Dave suggested I treat them with mealworms, that they love above all treats. The first time they got them, the hens gobbled them up as quick as they could. Jenga on the other hand, wondered around with one in his mouth, doing a little song as he did. Polly or Scrabble would go up to him and take the mealworm out of his mouth, whereby he'd go find another and thus, the performance would continue.

Z says that's his "Look at what a good cock I am; here is delicious food!" He puffs himself out and struts around enough to make a young John Travolta look effeminate.

When I let them out, my flock mill about for a bit and then head out to forage. They will often pop back and come into the greenhouse, Jenga will call for me to come and dish out the treats they know I keep near the door for them. This time it was only Jenga and Scrabble who came in. I gave her some currants and then switched to mealworms.

When Jenga saw the mealworms, he ran off doing his little song and came back soon after with Polly and Canasta who had been around the front of the house. 

He's so sweet. He might be a bit of a tart, but he really does try to be a good bantam husband.

Velociraptor Moves

As it so often happens, I made a new Facebook friend. We saw each other commenting on our mutual friend's wall and had a mutual hug. I promised her a Velociraptor Movie and this was my first attempt. Don't judge me, I'm on a steep learning curve (like hold the damn phone in landscape mode and film bits at the beginning before leaping in at the deep end.

But hey, even Spielberg had to start somewhere. 

The perils of loving velociraptors

Z warned me and I did believe her. Loving chickens is perilous. They do not love you back in the same way that dogs and cats do, but they do regard you from their chicken hearts. I know it's mostly cupboard love, but I can live with that. After all, I have a cat; and a cat's love is as conditional as it gets.

Mona and Polly were my first two. I 'borrowed' them and then came the others, Canasta and Scrabble. But Mona and Polly bullied the other two quite viciously, especially Scrabble who was a tiny little thing really. I looked at Mona and was sure she was a he - Mono, and Z agreed I could swap her for Jenga. 

Mona and Polly

The consensus was that Mono was a she, but she still needed to be kept separate. A momentary lapse of attention and deluge from the sky, led to the disastrous herding of the older chickens and Mona into the same small coop. Z found her unconscious, with all of the feathers plucked off her poor little head. Given it was my mistake, I took her on care. For three days, Mona was either on my lap or on my arm.  She was given a box in my greenhouse with a top to keep Rummy off of her. Her poor eyes were swollen shut and it was all I could do to get her to drink. She didn't appear to eat anything at all. We bathed her sore head three times a day and Z got a hideously expensive spray to deter infection.

She gradually opened one eye and got much stronger. I either carried her around on my arm or shoulder like a parrot, much to Z's amusement. Rummy sniffed her occasionally, but apart from that, he took very little notice of her. He would curl up next to me as she sat on my lap snoozing.  She liked to snuggle herself on my shoulder, cheeping into my ear as she fell asleep.

Mona and Rummy snoozing as I read my Kindle

As she got stronger, I brought her outside with the others. She'd sit next to me and attempt to peck at things, but without two working eyes she missed more times than hit. I began to look for chicken nappies. I felt a one-eyed chicken wouldn't do well with the others and I didn't mind her inside at all, it was just the poo. And OMG chicken poo smells! And then her other eye opened up.

She began to hang out more with the others. I needn't have worried about her healing head as an issue. She was the problem to my flock, not the other way around. By that time, it was clear that Jenga was definitely a rooster. He was totally giving it large at every opportunity. However, he and Mona started squaring up in a totally different way that he did with the others. Their heads would go down and they'd glare into the other's eyes doing their version of a growl.

Mona having a snooze in my kitchen

It was Saturday morning at 6.30 when the crowing from the greenhouse woke me and I knew for sure, Mona was definitely a Mono. My heart sank. I couldn't have two cockerels. 

Jenga is far more amenable and less of a bully than Mono and the other hens don't hesitate to tell him where to get off. Mono bullied everyone without mercy. For the flock's sake he had to go.

Last Thursday, Z told me she'd found a man to despatch her cockerels and he'd do Mono as well. With a very heavy heart I caught him and set him in the coop to await his fate. Something I regretted for the whole morning. I had a poetry tutorial that morning and I worried and worried about him.

It wasn't the decision that Mono had to be despatched that hurt. It was the fact that Mono was mine, he trusted me and I was going to let a stranger lay his hands on him and do him violence. I couldn't bear the thought. Happily, when I got back home, it turned out the guy didn't make it over. I got Mono back and he ran around with the others for the rest of the evening. Come bedtime, I put the others in the coop and Mono in the greenhouse to roost. I found an old cooler and when it was dark, I popped Mono in there.

He just went to sleep. 

To have animals live with you, is to accept the responsibility of their health and happiness. I miss Mono. I miss his stroppy self so incredibly much. It hurts more than is logical or makes sense and I don't regret his dispatch. 

RIP you stroppy cock.

Changing Seasons

Time slipped by as it does. Lost in the day to day stuff that makes me a deeply contented woman. Since I last blogged, I've had my head in the sand about the impending doom of my finances and been playing with chickens. I also applied for a job (haven't heard yet) and have been seriously considering my options. The result? I pulled out and dusted off my novel. I came to understand that the issue I was battling with was one of plotting. 

November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) where the aim is to have 50,000 words under your belt by December 1st. I'm kind of giving it a go. As in I'm focused on my novel this month (and next probably), I want to exit 2015 with the first draft completed. I've had to look again at my WIP (Work In Progress) with a beady eye. I did a bit of cliche culling and that sent me back to research. Last night, I resolved several issues and managed to do some writing. F. Scott Fitzgerald might have been able to write drunk and edit sober, I managed the first, but it completely undermined the start of today. But that's okay. I can work through the evening if necessary. 

The velociraptors are totally lovely and if I'm not careful, become the only focus of conversation. I ended up nursing a poorly chook who got attacked by older cockerels when it was put in with them by accident. The chook ended up spending the day in the crook of my arm as it recovered. I wasn't sure whether the poor thing would be able to see and started to look up chicken nappies, so it could run around the house. Rummy and Z looked at me like I'd lost my mind. In the end, it has made a full recovery. Unfortunately, it has repaid my kindness by giving it large 6.30 last Saturday. It's a bloody cockerel. 

Just a woman in the country

I can't have two of them. I really can't. It's too stroppy with the others and already there are scraps between it and Jenga. When the two of them mature, I can see the scraps turning bloody and the hens being run ragged. It can't happen. I can't even assure Jenga's future, given my accommodation in the next couple of years is uncertain. If I end up moving back into an urban area, a cockerel giving it large at 4.30 am in the summer will not be welcome. Ah well. I just have to be strong and sensible about it. 

In the midst of all of this, I continue to embrace living in the country. Dave spoilt me bloody rotten and bought me proper Hunter wellies. They are amazing. They fit well and are so incredibly comfortable. I see why they have their well-deserved reputation. He also treated me to an electric blanket. Two weeks later and the novelty hasn't worn off. Getting into a warm bed is blissful. I love it so very, very much. I'm thinking about getting a heated throw for when it gets cold, to put over my shoulders as I write.

Last Saturday, I re-organised the house into its Winter configuration. My desk and all my writing materials are back in my front room, with my art materials moved to my bedroom study. The ritual of it is so comforting. I feel ready for Winter.

Polly, Scrabble, Canasta and Jenga

none of them ever sit still for pix

Living in the Country

my new garden ornament

No, I have no idea where the time is going. I'm quietly living, I look up and suddenly it's the middle of October. The year is disappearing along with pretty much all my goals, objectives and money. Humpf. One of the things that has been and gone, is the first anniversary of my running away to the country. It happened at the beginning of the month. I blinked and almost missed it. I've been busy with the garden, trying to take advantage of the warm weather while it lasted. Just as well really, it's been throwing it down this week. And it's cold.

Since the arrival of my flock of velociraptors, I spent as much time outside in the garden as the weather and my energy would let me. I was able to hack and slash my way through 80% of the garden, removing the top layer of nettles, ground elder and other miscellaneous weeds. That last 20%...that was the killer. In the end, I asked Z if I could borrow her gardening man and his strimmer to deal with that last bit. Z herself shaped and pruned back a couple of shrubs and the garden looks so much better for it. 

Now comes the hard bit. When the weather and my To Do List allows, I head out with my girls to do some root removal. Without the weeds making the whole thing Bush, I can see the shape of the garden itself. Unfortunately, my neglect has given the perennial weeds a full season to establish themselves. Basically, if it's dry enough I let the girls out, find a patch in the border (or lawn) and start forking it over. Reminds me, I must get some hand tools. It means I can pull out the root systems of the weeds and turn the soil over.

The velociraptors like this activity of mine very much. When they were in the greenhouse, I handled them to get them used to me; I think it's worked a little too well. They are getting the idea that they might want to keep their distance if I'm wrestling with the fork, but sometimes, the thought of a worm or a centipede is just too much. If I am crouched down removing roots they'll be under me, pecking at my hands to get at the yummies. They have no fear of me at all now.

Dave bought me and put together a proper chicken coop for my girls. He's been an absolute star doing that and even moving it over an earthy bit so they can grub around in the extension. They were deeply unimpressed by the move from greenhouse to coop. Getting them back in there on the first day was a bit of a struggle, I ended up cornering them in the greenhouse and hauling them complaining bitterly back in. Z was absolutely right when she said to leave them in there for a couple of days, then let them out, they've been fine since then.

They are still youngsters and after about an hour or so of pecking and scratching, they're ready for some treats and a doze, which is perfect for me. If there's a dry patch in the day, I can get out there, dig over a bit, haul out half a hundred weight of roots and then get on with the rest of my day. 

They are getting bigger and earlier this week I thought they were big enough to be less vigilant around them. Rummy and Z's Eloise think it's a fine game to rush at them, to see them squawk and flutter around. Me and the girls are less impressed. It's got to the point where I've had enough and have threatened to douse the cats with water if they keep it up. There must be something in my voice, because both cats made themselves scarce today after that threat.

However, my vigilance is still required and not because of the cats either. Z and I were having a cuppa in the garden with the girls, chatting and watching them scratch about under the hedge, when a sparrowhawk made a run at them. It failed to do anything other than scare the bejeezus out of us, but it was an impressive bit of flying on its part. 

The sparrowhawk started its bombing run at the chicken coop. It came in low and fast. It squeezed past a piece of plastic I've hung on my line and the hedge (about 2 feet maybe). The only thing that saved my girls was a tree in its flight path. After the squeeze it had to bank sharp right to avoid splatting into the tree. The speed it came in, had it hit one of the chickens, it would have done some serious damage. It couldn't have flown off with it so I'd have come back to a mangled corpse.

Time will take care of the risks from the cats and sparrowhawks, in a few weeks time, they will be big enough to hold their own against them. In a few weeks time, I'll also be able to tell whether there's a cockerel in their midst. Today, Jenga had a go at crowing while we were gardening. If s/he minds his/her manners, it might be okay. However, it's really not good news. Despite my best intentions, I've got quite attached to the damn things. 

The Flock of Velociraptors...

I'm not convinced these are any better, but will have to do. An iPhone is not great in taking action pix and my girls refuse to stay still.

Canasta, eyeing up a bug on her perch

Scrabble

Jenga

Canasta and Scrabble debugging my patio

Jenga and Scrabble scratching over the patio bed for me

Polly

I am trying not to adore them too much and failing. There is still time for them to show their true colours and grow into manly cocks. They are so sweet though. The little brown ones, Canasta and Scrabble seem more like road-runners than chickens in the way they are so sleek and dart around. 

I handle them in the afternoon and before they roost and they are becoming less and less panicked by me now. They have my measure now. 

Yesterday, when I tackled the last of the nettles in the woodpile, they came when called to scratch and peck under my feet. Rummy had gone a-galavanting and so we were all far more relaxed. I'd call to them and they'd drift on over to me. I didn't do an awful lot yesterday, only a couple of barrow-full of weeds, which I left in piles. I couldn't be arsed to get the barrow out again, once my eaves have been repaired (there's a man fixing them now) I'll haul them onto the bonfire. When I was done ,I went in and sat down I could still see them. I'd left the greenhouse door open to get some fresh air in there, and after awhile they all drifted in of their own accord. No need to chase them down waving a big stick. Awesome.

Supervising them, as Z pointed out, is a bit like a Joyce Grenfell sketch "George don't do that." 

Rummy is getting over the fact I'm so horrible to him and not letting him eat them. He still would though. I wouldn't trust him with them as far as I can throw a plastic pot, which I did have to end up doing when we were out en masse earlier in the week. I think it's now jealousy on his part. Being that I'm his human and he is not entirely happy that he has to share me with Boy or Dave; four chirping velociraptors that like to snuggle with me in the evenings are a bit much.

Dave thinks I'm nuts. But then, he's always thought so; really no change there. He remarked that I'd failed miserably as crazy cat lady, so trying for crazy chicken lady. In his true romantic fashion he declared that he would sort out the coop. So said, so done. He's also insisting that he be the one to put it together. Yes, he's seen me in flat pack action. I remain grateful. Which reminds me, he suggested I hang old CDs up in the greenhouse to amuse the girls. I've got some kicking around here somewhere....

There used to be a plot...

When I crawled out of bed last Thursday, I had no intentions in my head other than getting up to see to the Menagerie. I did that, pottered around for a bit and then next thing I know, I was talking Wince, Z's gardener into helping me kidnap two of the adolescent chicks to help me turn over a garden bed. Since I arrived here last year and have been dealing with Z's velociraptors, I've been saying how much I'd like some of my own. I was only 'borrowing' them. Three glasses of red wine later I agreed to relieve Z of another two velociraptors. 

The full extent of my folly is gradually coming home to roost. 

I popped the original two in my greenhouse. I have been gradually attacking the garden and I let Mona and Polly out for a run around while I slashed and hacked my way through the nettles and bindweed.  I realised that I had more of a chance winning the lottery than getting the two back into their small box. A bit of ingenuity on my part and I shooed them into the greenhouse. 

Z and I talked over several cups of tea that night.

I wanted a cockerel for my little flock. I've seen how lovely their father is in that he's so protective and is really quite sweet. Given that there are cats and other creatures around that would make a quick snack of them, I figured that would be a good idea. 

Until it was pointed out, that with two flocks in close proximity, he'd be over the fence looking to steal/impregnate/fight for dominance over Z's flock. Cocks can also be incredibly stroppy and go for the hand that feeds them. I was still willing to risk it.

Yesterday, as agreed I acquired the other two and that's when the trouble started. The original pair ganged up on the newbies and made the little brown hen's (her name is Canasta) life a misery. It was clear that Mona was actually Mono and the new speckled hen, could go either way. Z was very concerned that I was getting attached to them both. Two cocks in a flock of four are out of the question; it would be pandemonium. I slept on it.

This morning, I asked Z if I could give back Mono. 

I would love to keep him, but with he and Polly ganging up on Canasta, the dynamic is too aggressive. Also, the fact of the matter is: I don't know where I'm going to be living in 2-3 years. While I might be able to get away with four cute hens in most residential areas, three hens and a cockerel waking everyone up at the crack of dawn would push most people past Reasonable and straight into Litigious. I don't want to build up the flock. If in a few years time I'm living in the middle of nowhere, I can get a cock then. People are desperate to get rid of them. It would also make sense in case they get lucky and have a clutch. 

Z agreed. It turns out she was also worried about that. This morning I gave back Mono and "borrowed" another little brown hen, she's Canasta's egg sister, I've named her Scrabble. Peace reigns. Polly is still top hen, but she's less aggressive without Mono backing her up. Canasta and Scrabble said hello and cuddled when they met, the two of them are ridiculously cute together. The speckled one is a bit shy, but is gradually becoming more adventurous. I'm really hoping that's a she. I'm a bit reluctant to name her yet until I'm confident she doesn't need to be despatched. 

I made the greenhouse a little more chicken friendly today and will go through and have cuddles with them in a bit. Rummy is beside himself that I'm not letting him eat them. Mama Cass the barn cat mother on the other hand, was outraged that I let four chicks into my house but refused to let her in. As I garden, the girls mill about doing what velociraptors do best: scratch, crap and eat snails & bugs. Mama Cass was determined she was going to have chick for dinner and rushed at them several times despite my shouts and gesticulations. My patience snapped when she went for Rummy, I swatted her. She spent the night with her face pressed to the greenhouse door trying to figure out how to get in. We are friends again today, but according to Z she's been a bit upset by it all. The chicks will grow up soon enough and the threat from the cats will diminish, so they'll be able to roam around without constant supervision. 

In the meantime, I've hauled my bodyweight in weeds to the bonfire. I'm not even half way done. No matter, as long as the weather is dry I can continue to make inroads. As I said to Z, it makes no difference where I start or how much I do, the task is so large the order becomes irrelevant. I'm already thinking about what I want to grow next year. I've got a couple of veg boxes already in my bit. Now I know the garden, I can plan for colour and produce. It's very satisfying work. It makes me happy.

camera shy Canasta & Scrabble, egg sisters

Polly, the daughter of the most rebellious of the velociraptors

(yes, I really wanted her)

The yet un-named speckled bantam, a bit timid and gorgeous

These pix are diabolical. I'll go take some more and upload them. Sorry about that.

Velociraptors, dreaming and over-run melons

The Great Ursus, his Lovely, Boy and I went to see Jurassic World last night. It was brilliant! Loved it so much. Only go and see it if you are able to suspend belief/science knowledge, don't require much of a plot and can resist face/palming yourself too often at character stupidity. 

I went for the velociraptors. Of course.

Now that my hay fever season is behind me, I'm now tackling weeding the greenhouse where my melons are installed. Bashing my foot means I can only do a little bit at a time before it hurts too much. But in that time, I've been able to turn an over-run garden bed into a WWI battlefield. I've managed to kill two melon plants who were twinned in and amongst the weeds and the chicken wire to keep the chickens off. 

The chicken wire, it has to be said, was less than successful. When I got into the greenhouse this morning, there was a white hen all settled in the weeds. She was very pissed off when I started grabbing handfuls of weeds near her and let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of my intervention. Her language was fowl. 

Yesterday, I indulged in a bit of daydreaming and a Zoopla search. I found my dream house. All I need is £125,000 - £135,000 cash for an auction next week. It's a lovely bungalow, in the middle of nowhere, with a garden in the wilds of Suffolk. It's about a year too soon. I'm not ready to liquidate my assets just yet. It was still a useful exercise in that it solidifies what I'd ideally like. 

I know I never want to have another mortgage again. No more owing banks money. It does mean there's going to be a trade off between my need for seclusion and space and what I can afford. I look ahead and there's quite a bit of DIY in my future. That's okay. I'm good with that. Dave has trained me well to be a good builder's assistant. 

My space here has shown me the way I want to live. I would have never thought to put a greenhouse at a back door. It's such a great idea. It reminds me of the principles of perma culture, where you zone your garden. Herbs and needy plants are kept close by, with less needy plants and bigger veg put further afield. Granted these principles are meant to be implemented on a much bigger, farming scale, it still makes sense to me.

I'm dreaming now. I definitely want a greenhouse at my back door and a bigger greenhouse for the bigger plants (like melons). I want to have mixed beds with the emphasis on companion planting and edibles growing amongst flowers. I found out strawberries are brilliant in keeping weeds down. 

I don't want a pretty garden. And if I get my way, I will have my own velociraptors to ensure it never is pretty. Z tells me we have 3 nesting hens now. These are the first batch of chicks. They've grown so much.

I wonder if I can train them to run in formation behind me on a bike?

Happily, I can indulge these fantasies. I try them on for fit and adjust them accordingly. For example, with any house I next purchase, I must have a bedroom for Boy. Even if he graduates and buggers off to travel the world. He must always have a space here with me. It will also double quite nicely as a guest bedroom for the endless stream of visitors I'm sure I will have (*snigger*). I also need a room big and bright enough to write and be creative in. Here's where a bit of compromise works well, I could always get a garden office and kit it out to my exact specification, which would then have the bonus of facing onto my gorgeous garden.

Anyway, unless we win the lottery, or sell 50,000 cups of coffee this weekend, it's all pie in the sky at the moment. 

Reminds me of the joke my Psychology tutor told me:

Neurotics build castles in the air
Psychotics live in them
Psychiatrists come to collect the rent. 

Z still seems happy with me to be here and there's no rush yet. Next spring is a long way away yet. And who knows what Life will be like next year?