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Authors: Carole Matthews
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to nature is all very well, but sometimes you can just be too close to it. I sigh as I measure out the grain for the chickens. Will I ever get used to the amount of small, scary and fast-moving creatures that nature harbours?
Our henhouse is enormous - industrial-sized probably - with room for many more chickens than our scabby dozen. The door has a heart-shaped Perspex window in it - which is a nice touch, but one that the chickens couldn’t care less about as they’re blind. There’s a long, enclosed run next to it where Will has - rather hopefully, I think - installed a large rabbit hutch. Despite my husband’s leanings, I have no intentions of having rabbits too.
Working my way along the chickens, I grab each one with a reluctance I previously hadn’t known possible. I can feel the expression of extreme distaste on my face. Oh, I so don’t like chickens! Particularly not these nervous, moth-eaten ones. I try Christopher first as she looks the most docile. Clearly my husband hasn’t got to the bit in Keeping Chickens where Audrey points out that all hens are female. Chris wriggles underneath my hands and squawks as if I’m trying to murder her as I struggle to drip the antibiotics into her unseeing eyes. This makes the rest of the hens scatter, flapping blindly round the chicken coop and scrabbling vainly for the door.
‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ I tell Christopher firmly. ‘Stop fidgeting. You’re frightening the others.’ To think that in my former life as a television producer of the UK’s favourite sports quiz, I used to find the demands of Premiership footballers difficult to deal with.
When I’ve managed to catch them all - a not inconsiderable feat - and have worked my way through them all administering medicine, my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress is thoroughly covered in chicken shit. I then carry each chicken carefully over to the bowl of food and point it in the direction of its breakfast. It’s taken me for ever. And I’ll have to do it all again later. And tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
When I get back to the kitchen, exhausted, my husband is sitting drinking tea. He has fared much better with the sheep. ‘Lovely old things,’ he declares with a contented smile.‘No trouble at all. I think they’ll really enrich our life.’
Three menopausal sheep? Can’t wait to see how. It’s a bright, sunny day today. Wait until we’re struggling out in the wind and snow to deal with them. Might not be such an attractive proposition then.
Before I’ve had time to enjoy a cuppa, the children are ready for school.
‘Hamish has had his breakfast too,’ Jessica informs me, and it’s then that I spy the pile of cornflakes on the floor plus the shredded box. I feel my forehead. It’s becoming feverish, I’ll swear.
‘I will clean it all up, Amy,’ Maya says with a tut and then she disappears to find the dustpan and brush - which, frankly, has never seen so much action. I don’t know how she’s putting up with all the extra work she’s having to do: if I was her, I’d go on strike. And then I wonder why I’m not on strike.
‘Can we take Hamish to school with us?’ Tom asks.
‘What a good idea,’ Will says. I’d rather leave the damn thing here, preferably locked in a small room with nothing for him to eat other than the rest of the cornflakes box. Mind you, he’d probably gnaw his way out through the door.
‘Come on, boy.’ My husband tries to lasso him with the lead while the dog bucks like a bronco. ‘I might try to find some dog-training classes,’ Will pants as he wrestles with Hamish. This can’t be good for his heart.
Ten minutes later and after a great performance the dog is finally harnessed and we set off, rushing as now the children are in danger of being late.Will is yanked down the lane by Hamish, to whom rushing is second nature. It’s like trying to take a charging bull for a walk.
‘Whoa, boy! Whoa, boy!’ Will cries in
Our henhouse is enormous - industrial-sized probably - with room for many more chickens than our scabby dozen. The door has a heart-shaped Perspex window in it - which is a nice touch, but one that the chickens couldn’t care less about as they’re blind. There’s a long, enclosed run next to it where Will has - rather hopefully, I think - installed a large rabbit hutch. Despite my husband’s leanings, I have no intentions of having rabbits too.
Working my way along the chickens, I grab each one with a reluctance I previously hadn’t known possible. I can feel the expression of extreme distaste on my face. Oh, I so don’t like chickens! Particularly not these nervous, moth-eaten ones. I try Christopher first as she looks the most docile. Clearly my husband hasn’t got to the bit in Keeping Chickens where Audrey points out that all hens are female. Chris wriggles underneath my hands and squawks as if I’m trying to murder her as I struggle to drip the antibiotics into her unseeing eyes. This makes the rest of the hens scatter, flapping blindly round the chicken coop and scrabbling vainly for the door.
‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ I tell Christopher firmly. ‘Stop fidgeting. You’re frightening the others.’ To think that in my former life as a television producer of the UK’s favourite sports quiz, I used to find the demands of Premiership footballers difficult to deal with.
When I’ve managed to catch them all - a not inconsiderable feat - and have worked my way through them all administering medicine, my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress is thoroughly covered in chicken shit. I then carry each chicken carefully over to the bowl of food and point it in the direction of its breakfast. It’s taken me for ever. And I’ll have to do it all again later. And tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
When I get back to the kitchen, exhausted, my husband is sitting drinking tea. He has fared much better with the sheep. ‘Lovely old things,’ he declares with a contented smile.‘No trouble at all. I think they’ll really enrich our life.’
Three menopausal sheep? Can’t wait to see how. It’s a bright, sunny day today. Wait until we’re struggling out in the wind and snow to deal with them. Might not be such an attractive proposition then.
Before I’ve had time to enjoy a cuppa, the children are ready for school.
‘Hamish has had his breakfast too,’ Jessica informs me, and it’s then that I spy the pile of cornflakes on the floor plus the shredded box. I feel my forehead. It’s becoming feverish, I’ll swear.
‘I will clean it all up, Amy,’ Maya says with a tut and then she disappears to find the dustpan and brush - which, frankly, has never seen so much action. I don’t know how she’s putting up with all the extra work she’s having to do: if I was her, I’d go on strike. And then I wonder why I’m not on strike.
‘Can we take Hamish to school with us?’ Tom asks.
‘What a good idea,’ Will says. I’d rather leave the damn thing here, preferably locked in a small room with nothing for him to eat other than the rest of the cornflakes box. Mind you, he’d probably gnaw his way out through the door.
‘Come on, boy.’ My husband tries to lasso him with the lead while the dog bucks like a bronco. ‘I might try to find some dog-training classes,’ Will pants as he wrestles with Hamish. This can’t be good for his heart.
Ten minutes later and after a great performance the dog is finally harnessed and we set off, rushing as now the children are in danger of being late.Will is yanked down the lane by Hamish, to whom rushing is second nature. It’s like trying to take a charging bull for a walk.
‘Whoa, boy! Whoa, boy!’ Will cries in
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