It was pretty chilly last night here in Leicestershire. I tend to watch the weather forecast these days just to see if the chucks are going to survive the Arctic blasts or if they need a bit of pampering. Last night I decided that they needed pampering, so the pop hole was closed and their little heater that stops their water from freezing was turned on. They seem to appreciate it and it allows me to sleep without worrying if I’m going to get up in the morning to two frozen chickens. No jokes, thank you!
I always go to them first thing – a good stock-man always checks his stock at daybreak and dusk – or so I’ve been told. Not sure if two chucks makes me a stock-man but hey ho … They tend to lay their eggs in the same area in which they roost so I like to remove the overnight pooh before the eggs arrive and get smeared. Quite often they beat me to it and the eggs are already there when I arrive, deep brown and still warm. I usually pop one egg in each pocket of my dressing gown (yes, dressing gown. I did say I went to them at daybreak!) and then that leaves me two free hands to secure doors behind me. I have only once forgotten that the eggs were in my pockets and that was after I’d thrown the dressing gown into the washer and turned it on. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Poor Richard’s undies didn’t fare too well.
My mission of yesterday was accomplished. Richard’s Ma was so impressed with the Mulligan paperback that she insisted on buying it! Whoa. Go Betty. She said she would share it round the family. I told her to do no such thing and to make them buy their own copy! I’m no salesman but even I can see the stupidity of agreeing to that. I told her that it was the first book to come off the press and I would happily sign it for her if she wanted me to. She either didn’t hear me or didn’t want my scrawl in her super-duper newly acquired paperback because no answer came from her delicate mouth. But she was working her way through a very disgusting looking cream shortbread thing at the time. I really should know the name of it having been in the catering trade for many years but I tend to remove information from my brain if I think that there’s a chance I won’t be needing it again. Trust me, there is only so much info and rubbish that my old grey cells can compute.
Today I am going to see my brother. It is a twenty-mile drive, via Marks and Spencer, where I shall pop in briefly to purchase a certain item of ladies underwear. Richard has equipped the car with a tank-full of petrol and has programmed the sat-nav with appropriate postcode. He has probably, also, thrown a shovel into the boot and a Thermos of hot soup just in case the weather changes and I get stuck in a snowdrift.
You see, I go along day after day making out that I’m this big horrible baddie that won’t let the poor soul have a £1,000 tooth fitted in his orifice and you get the impression that he must hate me – and you are so wrong. The man adores me. Worships the water that I walk on. At least – that’s what I tell him. And you know what they say – if someone tells you something for long enough you actually start to believe it. Don’t they call it brainwashing?? Hah! Whatever.
I’m off to get ready for my journey into the wilds of deepest, darkest Leicestershire I may or may not be back. And you know what? I know that I should equip you all with a million links to my bloody books and act like an author – but I can’t be bothered. So if you want to buy one you’ll have to find it for yourselves.
You can see that I’m going to be mega successful with that attitude, can’t you?