Putting the Tree in Poultry & Petrified

So, yesterday I bought Mrs Brahma a Black Rock to keep her company. Harry had a whale of a time on the swings at the farm park, and the owners, whom I know through work, gave him a super-cool pair of boots that their grandson had, with toddler capriciousness, firmly refused to put on his feet, ever. When I turfed the newcomer into the run, I felt that it must be a big improvement on her hen pen back at the park. In short, a good morning for everyone. 

When John appeared in the doorway at hen bed-time to report that Mrs B was perched in solitary splendour with the new girl nowhere to be seen, I was a tad miffed, so I marched him back outside for another prod about. Looking for a black hen in dark undergrowth with one feeble torch between us got boring after a (short) while, so the spaniel was summoned and told to Do His Stuff. Tebbit is usually excellent at finding (and munching, if intervention does not take place) poultry, but he drew a total blank, which puzzled us. Mrs Black was left to take her chances with foxy and I mentally wrote off the £12.bloody50p. My chagrin at the Hairy Farmer Family accelerated poultry turnover-rate returned.

Turns out we were looking in the wrong direction entirely. When John let Mrs B out early this morning, he reported hearing clucking, the location of which he could not quite identify. When he returned at 9.30am for breakfast, the source of the sound became more apparent. 

Yep. 15ft up in the ash tree. God alone knows how she got up there. Tebbit’s nose was exonerated, but my doubts about Mrs Brahma’s disposition have deepened. 15ft is a long way for a hen to ascend when there’s a perfectly pleasant and spacious hen-house on offer.

Mrs B, in addition to being a suspiciously serial widow, is evidently also a total be-atch.

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