We’ve done our Christmas shopping
early this year. And when I say shopping I don’t mean all the novelty
underwear, boxes of Toffifee, soap-on-a-rope and all the other festive crap
that we feel compelled to buy each year. I’m talking about the actual Christmas
dinner. And the meal for Christmas Eve, and even perhaps Boxing Day if we’re
lucky…
The one thing around here which
won’t be having much luck from Saint Nick this year are the three Wirral Bronze
turkey chicks, or the ostriches as we like to call them (check out the photo - they are very strange looking creatures). Although I would hasten to add that their luck is very much in at the
moment given the amount of love and attention they are currently receiving from
my husband with thrice daily meals and drinks, a top of the range heat lamp and
(what was) my favourite organic cotton supersoft duvet cover which he has
appropriated for their bedding. Never let it be said that I am jealous of other
birds but….. It’s quite hard to believe at the moment that the strange, skittish
creatures could actually grace our Christmas table. If the chap who sold them
to us knows his stuff we may still be nipping down to Aldi to fight with the
hordes and masses come Christmas Eve as they apparently have a strong suicidal
streak and will “die for fun”. So we’ve removed all their belts, razors and
shoe laces and are hoping for the best.
Christmas dinner. Maybe. |
Chauntecleer. Confused.com |
You can’t have Christmas without
a delicious baked ham, studded with cloves and smothered with honey for pure
sweet and salty loveliness. Mmmmm. Enter
stage left, Peppa and George, our Berkshire and nearly Berkshire piglets (the
latter of which was *ssshh whisper so we
don’t hurt her feelings* an accident when the Gloucester Old Spot x Large
White boar hurdled the gate into the Berkshire sow’s pen and spent a night of
unbridled passion on the wrong side of the fence). At just three months old,
they are smaller than the dog, fit easily in the back of the Landrover and, you
would therefore think, are an absolute doddle to handle. Wrong, oh so wrong.
Having lovingly prepared their new pig sty, complete with soft straw bed to
sleep in and a Belfast sink (I know, a bloody BELFAST SINK that I campaigned
hard to put aside for the new kitchen and lost out to some sodding pigs!) to eat
out of, it was time to release them into their new home. Easy. Open door. Pick
up pig. Carry pig to enclosure. Release pig. Only it didn’t quite work out like
that. As soon as the back door of the Landrover was opened I swear to God I saw
a definite glint in that piggy little eye as it paused, obviously eyeing up the
situation and thinking, “these clowns clearly don’t have a clue what they are
doing here - let’s have some fun with this”, before literally hurling itself at
great velocity through my husband’s waiting arms and out into the open field. There
ensued a good half hour of Benny Hill style escapades as one small piglet played
two grown men off against each other, darting stealth like under bushes and charging
through legs and open arms, going every which way but into the sty. Every time
they got close it dodged breezily passed them with a snort and a squeal (I'm sure of laughter or delight) as my husband huffed and puffed after it like
some lumbering big, bad wolf in his steel toe cap welly boots. It was into this
scene of porcine chaos that our poor unsuspecting neighbours wandered, out for
a quiet afternoon stroll with their grandchildren. I’m quite sure that the last
thing they expected to see on their afternoon constitutional was a fully grown man launching himself like Shane
Williams on the try line on top of a tiny piglet. With an almighty thud, a
cloud of choice expletives and blood curdling screams the pig was recaptured.
From that moment on I can categorically say without a shadow of a doubt that
every single house in our valley (and the next) will be in no doubt that we now
own pigs. Absolute comedy gold but admittedly not the most auspicious start to
our pig husbandry career. Just as well pigs are hungry little buggers. A couple
of days or rattling the bucket of pig nuts and we are all best friends again.
All that is until we dust off the Delia Christmas recipe book and start
planning the yuletide menu… 80 days to go and counting.
Gotcha! |
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