After months of careful persuasion by yours truly, the ever tolerant husband has agreed to move house. Principally, this is so that the humans have more room. Naturally, there is also another, more chicken oriented, furtive reason.
I dream of a bigger garden, with a designated chicken area, and a walk in run. Of course, this chicken mansion will be far too big for my girls, so I will feel obliged to add a few more. Ahem. My sneaky plan involves hatching a few eggs of my own, and selling the extra youngsters. In this way, I will aquire my much coveted frizzle pekin. If the garden is big enough, I might even aquire a serama cockerel and a couple of hens. Serama are the worlds smallest chickens, and a serama cockeral crowing sounds much like a cat feeling amorous. I have many, many plans.
All of which has to wait until the frankly tedious business of selling our own house has been achieved. With steely determination, the ever tolerant husband and I set about regaining control of the garden from the feathered marauders. We cut, hacked, mowed and swept until the back garden looked, well, wonderful. The hens watched all this activity from various dustbaths which they have rather inconsiderately made all over the garden. I emptied the greenhouse of all the spent tomato plants and scraped rather a lot of chicken poo from the path. At last, we were finished.
We sat in the kitchen and surveyed our handiwork, pleased with the results. The hens gradually emerged from various hhiding places, and convined on the lawn. The pekins muttered amongst themselves, keeping one eye on us through the french doors, obviously trying to work out what all of this tidying meant, and whether it would mean good things for them. The silkies shot out from under cover of the rhododendron bush, and threw themselves full force against the greenhouse door. Which was shut. Shaking the impact off, Kiki once again attempted to walk through solid glass.
Definitely not the brightest bulbs.