Thursday, 21 April 2011

I’m as soft as a moob

Before reading this blog, you are all obliged to read firstly, the blog from yesterday, just so you get the FULL trip…seriously, you’ll see why. Go read it, then come back. See you in  a minute!

Flicking chicken poo in your face is never going to be one of my icebreakers that I mention to new acquaintances, it will certainly be however, the reason why I have scrubbed my face with bleach, and the rest of my body, and I am not doing it just the once either. Nor will my icebreaker be that I then followed the sh*t hoying into face, with treading in the huge great pile of chicken sh*t I had just shoveled out of the house (the chicken house, I should add-just so as you’re sure!), and grabbing something covered in chicken sh*t to use that as a device to move something worse looking than everything I had just shoveled out the chicken house. It was one of the most rankoid and vile events, that I shall write about now, and then forget, forever. Now the reason why all this happened, is because I had to sterilise the chicken house. Why? Well, of course it has to be done regularly anyway, but I HAD to today, as yesterday after writing in my blog that I wanted to kill my chickens, well today, I actually did. Not intentionally, and I did not wring her neck (despite rumours in my house amongst the kids and the animals). Meg died of unknown causes, and very suddenly, and after the kids asked me, on hearing that Meg had snuffed it, if it was me, whether I had killed her, as yesterday I had been ‘going on about how much I wanted to kill the f*ck*ng chickens’. How guilty do I feel? The kids have gone to bed distraught (I even shed a little tear, well, she was my responsibility, she had her own character, and I am not hard as nails, in fact I’m as soft as a moob (Google it if your unsure)). I have left Alex out in the garden with his pick-axe, digging a hole in the garden to give meg a decent send off. He is back in, he’s managed to snap his pick axe in the act. Now we have the debate, do we bin her? Or dig the rock-hard ground with nothing but a feeble spade. Let me have a think, I’ll get back to the blog, I’ll sterilise myself with bleach again in the interim. So, I’m back, and kept on going, digging and digging and digging. Alex remarks afterwards that that was the first grave he’d ever dug.  Which I guess I was relieved to hear…

How bad do I feel though? I must have willed her dead. The distraught kids took a lot of consoling, as did Alex. Alright, he didn’t, he actually, after digging her grave, then hoys her in sipping a beer, going ‘see ya, Meg’. I was a little taken a back, I had expected to ‘place’ her gently in, and scatter a few flowers on the grave top. But there you go, that’s life, and the death of our first chicken.

But just to draw matters out a bit, here is the note that I find on my pillow tonight…Monty had left it for us:

AHHHH, and then look...


So there we go, R.I.P Meg, and I am going to go round like Mary Poppins on prozac, consoling my upset children and ‘petting’ all the animals, all day long. See you next time, hopefully with the same number of live-stock.

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