Saturday, 11 November 2017

Cockerels and screams

Halloween may be over but there have been a fair few scenes around here of late that would not look out of place in your average Hammer horror movie.

Take the other morning for example. Husband sits bolt upright in bed and first words he utters to me are not,  “ Good morning darling, did you sleep well, a cup of tea perhaps cherie?” but rather “I Need A Killing Week”. And who says romance is dead?!! But rather than fleeing for the hills as some wives in similar situations may have done, I merely grunt a vague agreement and go on about my business. You see, the remaining two pigs are definitely starting to outstay their welcome (given the amount we have spent on pig nuts and flaked barley you could probably purchase all the pork in the entire country and still have some change leftover for a dirty kebab) and then there have been some pretty gruesome scenes up at the hen coop too….

Fight night

…“Mummy, why is that cockerel all red?” Turns out that four fully grown cockerels can’t actually co-habit with each other after all. Every time we walk past the three junior roosters are finding even more precarious perches to escape the wrath of Big Dot, who apparently has taken on somewhat of a Judge Dredd role in protecting his women. Blood and feathers everywhere. Time for some segregation and fattening up for Christmas methinks…. 

Is is safe to come down yet?

Then we arrived back from a recent trip to Scotland to a putrid smell of rotting flesh on the backdoor step. Now, our cat is not known for his good table manners but this was far worse than a bit of dried up Whiskas Fish Supreme he had overlooked. Oh no. After some rooting around my husband proudly produces by the tail the half-rotted carcass of the most enormous rat you have ever seen that clearly our puss had put away for safe keeping for a later date, a la Hannibal Lectpurrrrr…. (sorry).

Anyone seen any fava beans and a nice chianti?

Indeed, despite the cat’s best efforts, it is beginning to feel like a rodent invasion. I lie in bed at night woken up by the sound of mice in the roof, apparently learning to tap dance whilst wearing the clogs they picked up on their latest cheese run to Holland. And up at the hen coop there is a veritable spaghetti junction of superhighways between the rat holes and the hen feeders. Even more fuel for my husband’s much anticipated Killing Week.

And of course he chooses the exact moment when I am on a videoconference with my US colleagues in Texas, discussing the travesty that is gun crime and the insanity of people owning guns at all, to start sorting out his high-powered rifles in the background – in full view of my gobsmacked team. Perhaps having the gun cabinets positioned directly behind my desk is not the best idea… Just as well I now work in Inclusion and Diversity, and acceptance of all backgrounds is wholly encouraged. Even those with somewhat eccentric, rural lifestyles. I hope.

Here he comes...

And as if the guns weren’t enough to give any poor unsuspecting passer-by the heebee jeebees, he has also had a chainsaw pretty much permanently appended to the end of his arm as we clear lots of brush and trees in readiness for our new road. It literally goes everywhere with him – thrown in the back of the car as we collect the girls from school, hidden under the table as we have lunch, pride of place in the front seat of the Landrover. Ever ready for that spontaneous massacre. Or perhaps just trying to outwit any would-be thieves. If this turns out to be my last blog post you’ll know the answer. 

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