Chicken Catastrophe No. 279632 - Live

Well, this is novel. I am writing this in the midst of a genuinely distressing chicken related catastrophe. Oh no, don't worry. All ten inhabitants of the Palace are hale and hearty. It is yours truly who is suffering right now. Relieved, aren't you?

Yes, I am suffering. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's because I have actual chicken poo in my hair and I can't right now wash it. Yes, you read that right. Actual, authentic chicken crap. In my hair. How, you ask? Why, let me elaborate.

About an hour ago, I decided to clean out the hens. I donned my trusty chicken cleaning coat, my garden shoes and the puppy. Tethering said puppy to the outside tap, I got on with it. I picked up the perch block and relaised my hands were wet. Looking down, I saw that the perch block was somewhat...splattered. Lovely. But being the trooper that I am, I wiped my hands and soldiered on. Now, it's windy here today in the midlands, and the newspapers and debris was blowing about a fair bit. I battled with the coop door getting it closed as a particularly frisky gust tore through the garden. But eventually, all was clean, secure and dealt with. I fetched the puppy and came inside where I immediately scrubbed my hands with half a dispenser of soap.

Yet I could still smell chicken poo. I checked my clothes, my shoes, the puppy. Nope, no sign. Yet every so often, an unpleasant perfume would waft up at me. With determination, I splashed bleach in the mop bucket and washed the floor. Ha, I thought, now I have conquered the poo where no poo should be. Triumphantly, I tucked my hair behind my ear. And was swiftly smacked in the face with the stench of excrement. Oh. My. God. The wayward poo was IN MY HAIR. I scrubbed at it with a bit of kitchen towel, shuddering. I must have tucked my hair back with a pooey hand without even noticing. Eugh.

I did a little dance of disgust, and was just heading upstairs to the shower when the doorbell went. It was the heating engineer, come to fix the radiator upstairs. An appointment we've waited a month for. So, reader, I let him in. I smiled and was polite. All the time there is poo in my hair. I made him tea. Knowing that less than an inch from my face was the remnents of poultry excrement. And I can't wash it out until the heating engineer leaves. I suppose I could mention to him my predicament and stick my head in the sink, but as he could see my dance of disgust through the window I suspect he already thinks I'm odd. There's no socially acceptable way of mentioning that you have animal faeces on your head.

Right now, reader, as I am writing this post, the puppy is sat on my lap intently sniffing my hair and then looking at me in utter amazement. Even he isn't such a skanky git, and he licks his own bum.

If the engineer doesn't leave soon, I will be forced to shave my head.