There has been talk of chickens in our house this week. The
dearly beloved has got it in to his head that it would be nice to have a few bantams
at the bottom of the garden for a ready supply of wholesome eggs. Nice idea, I
agreed, but before we rush out and spend £400 on a henhouse, I suggested we do
a little research. For instance, did you know that you might need planning
permission to put a chicken coop up in your garden? And that contrary to
popular belief it is actually against the law to feed your birds on kitchen scraps?
It turns out it is not the cheap
route to rural idyll that we – by which I mean he – anticipated. Once you’ve
bought your house, there’s extra wire to create a run, the ongoing costs of
buying chicken feed – which it turns out doesn’t cost chicken-feed – and then
you need somewhere pest proof to store it. There are also supplements, worming
preparations: the list goes on. And has he considered what he would do if he
found a dead bird, or worse still, a headless one? It could happen; indeed, I’d
go so far as to say it’s bound to.
The idea was mooted of putting
some chooks (as we poultry farmers refer to them) up at our allotment. But
someone has to tend to the birds twice a day, everyday, regardless of the
weather, what’s on the telly or, importantly for us, what shift work is being
done. I’m happy to support this enterprise, but my husband sometimes starts work at
6 in the morning and finishes at 10 at night, so I foresee some logistical
difficulties.
Then there’s the tricky problem
of the rats. I’m not one of those soppy girls who runs a mile at the sight of a
mouse, and my spider removal strategies are legendary. But rats (shudder), no
thanks.
I suggested that the best thing
would be to chat with a friend who is an experienced chicken-keeper. She was
happy to oblige and arranged a visit so we could have a proper hands-on look at
the job. It was at this point that my husband started coming up with excuses of
his own as to why it wasn’t perhaps for us – meaning him – after all: ‘It’s a
huge commitment, and I’m not sure we can justify the expense. Do we really
eat that many eggs? And could we bear to send them off to be, you know,
despatched, when the time came?’
I gave him a long, hard look: ‘You’re
scared to pick them up.’ He didn’t reply.
But we have decided that, for
now, we will buy our eggs from the local farm shop and let someone do the
rearing for us.
On the other hand, Father Brown, tucked away in the early afternoon slot, has been a delight. Yes, the plots are absurd and it is set in a version of England that I'm pretty certain never existed, but I've really enjoyed them. I've timeshifted courtesy of the i-player and slotted them into the evening, where they have restored me like a warm bath.
Both shows feature the excellent Mark Williams. Does anyone else remember him from the old TV ad employing his brummie accent to great effect, saying: 'We want to be together'?
