I want a bigger glass!

Thank you all for the kind words. I am feeling rather more cheerful now, particularly as the sun came out and we had a pleasant and relaxing Sunday at home together.

John might dispute this and mutter something about Brummie pessimism, but I feel I have a naturally optimistic disposition, given circumstances that are fair-to-middling. It’s just not a disposition quite as pathologically optimistic as his. John could be Optimistic for England. John’s glass is not only always half full, but he can also see a clear route to the bar – where there are plenty more glasses simply frothing over with free beer. He always, always, wakes up cheerful, which is reassuring when you’re a sensitive plant like me, because I am rather osmotic to gloomy and temperamental atmospheres. Having a unbudgeably even- keeled nature in the household is comforting.

However, John’s character trait can be frustrating for me when a catastrophe is blatantly inevitable. When circumstances are clearly looming dire and dictate a sharp reality check of 1) coffee smelling, 2) head-from-sand extraction, and 3) marked re-adjustment of goals: he is generally either blithely oblivious to the topic, or – and the last weeks of my pregnancy were a good example of this – refusing to seriously engage with the distinct possibilities of Much Badness and Impending Doom.

These are the occasions when my need to make Plans (A, B, C, and frequently D, too) and Lists (John shies backwards like a terrified pony when he sees me waving a new list at him; he’s often only just got over the shock of the work that the last one outlined for him) – is helpful. It doesn’t make me a pessimist. Had Harry not happily bagsied the last intensive care cot at our regional hospital, John would theoretically have been able to immediately follow Harry’s ambulance anywhere in the country complete with a small bag of his clean undies, toiletries, high-energy snacks and an emergency £10 note. Because Ann saw the inevitable coming! And assumed she would be c-section immobilised and baby-separated. And therefore planned. And packed. And kept our mobile phones charged up. And kept the car half-full of fuel at all times for weeks. And left his bloody bag at home in the actual event, but still

I digress. The point I am windily making is that I have cheered up again. I can sustain mid-range tense and worried like a complete pro for months, but actual horrid depths of Woe-Is-Me tend to pass over fairly soon, as it’s emotional hard work and the atmos round here is not precisely conducive to indulging in self-pity for lengthy periods. If Harry begins to say some more words soon, then I promise to be dementedly upbeat for the foreseeable. But if he doesn’t, I shall be fragile, and you may confidently expect another episode of complete misery and plan your blog-reading accordingly…

To illustrate the new air of chirpyness, I give you… chicks!

chicks

Of the 18 eggs I purchased, 11 were fertile and 10 hatched: which is about what I expected. One didn’t make it through Saturday and expired sadly on the palm of my hand, convulsively defecating blood into my palm as it did so. I deposited it calmly onto a plastic bag, dry-heaved into the sink for a while, washed my hands in OCD-fashion for several minutes, and then placed the tiny body out on the fence post for the buzzards, who will doubtless soon have a young family to feed. Strangely, although their cries are enormously melancholy, their mewings to each other as they soar through the blue sky above our garden perceptibly lighten my heart.

Anyhoo, we are now proud foster parents to 4 silkies, 3 lavender cochins and 2 lemon pyle brahmas chicks, who will now have to have a proper hen-cage built for them, to stop them becoming fox-food. Bah!

Cough. We were all about the cheerful, weren’t we? Sorry. Forgot.

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11 Responses

  1. I know what you mean about buzzards – it’s such a wonderful thing to hear.

  2. But what is a Brummie? Post glossary for us ignint colonials?

    You are a tough and resourceful critter, and the chicks are adorable, but I know I would have a nervous breakdown were I a farmwife for more than ten minutes. Something would piteously die all over me, and then they’d have to lock me in the attic and explain to visitors that the shrieks were just pigeons….

  3. Oh, my. Chickens Generation Three: the Saga Continues!

  4. Brummie?
    Gosh. That’s a post all in itself! Will try to obloige, awlroight?

  5. Loving the chicks. Inside until they have an armour plated coop right?

    Looking forward t you explaining the Brummie accent to the colonials!

  6. Awww…. Fluffy!

  7. What does it say about my state of mind that I read about your initial number of eggs, the number fertilised and the number hatched that I see a metaphor for future IUI’s?

    Also surely you need a smaller glass so the same amount of liquid looks fuller?

    I best be off now, right?

  8. Glad your mood has lifted a bit – those adorable chicks must be helping. Definitely inside pets until suitable accomadations are prepared, no?

  9. I’d give you a brim-ful glass the size of a bucket if I could.

    *Dry-heaves in sympathy over the dying chick*

    The Adorable Nine are just adorable. Also, silkies look adorable all their lives, especially the fringed-yoga-pant-leg whahey-my-hair! look they rock.

  10. Oh my – those adorable babies make me want to go refurbish MY chicken coop…

  11. Lists help. I have crafted three lists for myself just today.

    Your chicks are absolutely adorable!

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