Winged hoovers...

A dishwasher still not working, I find my morals are reducing themselves to the size of pips, pips from the smallest ever fruit you could ever find, if you could give morals sizes. My eldest daughter asked to do the washing up today, and looking at the six times EVERYTHING, stacked next to the sink, I nod my approval, she leaps in the air with glee, OMG, what have I done? I have just conceded to child slave labour, after dinner washing up in our house is no barrel of laughs, at the end of which, you feel nothing less than violated, like you’ve been intimately cleaning out a baboon’s arse for the last half hour of your one precious short life…But still, I let her do it, and then redid it when she wasn’t watching, bless, no match yet, and probably quite thankfully, for her mother’s neurotic cleanliness standards. 

Margo the star chicken, today, nearly got herself run over by a tractor, when she decided that she would chase us out of the gates and down the road, following the indignity of being thrown out of the car window (the door doesn’t open from the inside in my defence), and tries all the way to next door’s house to catch us and peck us. Out of the car windows, we stare, terrified she may succeed in catching us and pecking us hard to teach us our lessons, and I put my foot down hard, like I’m stamping on a wild badger trying to kill me, that hard, and we speed off, beating the crazed chook.

Upon returning, she has called a cease fire and laid an egg, her first egg since she was almost mauled to death by a dog we were looking after a few weeks back, and 20 stitches later, now with 3 big gaping crusty holes between her shoulders, nasty, enough to put you off your roast! She is back on form it seems. Good on her! Every time we return in the car, the chickens have cottoned onto something-we bring home ‘crumbs’ oh, and not just any old crumbs, big, regurgitated, spat out and squished into the floor, kind of crumbs, and they are but far and away, the BEST winged hoovers I have ever had (I’ve not had that many winged hoovers, to be fair, but you get the point?) they career  with all their might at the returning car, tearing across the garden like armless bandits, I mean how scary can that be? Wielding no weapons, ‘cause how could armless bandits wield a weapon? Not very easily, I can tell you. They move as if you are running somewhere, mighty fast, with your arms pressed down against your sides, try it, it might be fun. I enjoy it, in fact I think it should be the 'new' running way…let me know how it goes. Their mission; to enter the car, spying opening doors, flapping their way in taking out anyone or anything who should dare try and get in their way. My new economical (apart from when they really take the p*ss and sh*t in there. Not fun. The smell never quite goes…that faint smell of chicken poo wafting out, every time u open the car door). Well, tomorrow is another day, as they say. Err, yeah. Wish me luck, no particular reason, I just have a feeling…