Many of you will know that I’m a fully paid up member of the AA, no not the Automobile Association or in fact Alcoholics Anonymous (which might surprise some) but the Avid Avians!
Before you all rush off to Google the group, I’ve just made that up, but I‘m extremely PASSIONATE about my fluffy feathery two-legged friends.
I have, or should now sadly say, HAD until this week, a garden full of happy hens and quacking ducks.
I loved sitting in the garden with a cup of tea, or a glass of prosecco (depending on the time of day) watching ‘Idris Elba‘, the cockerel, trying to woo the ladies, who weren’t much interested and listening to the constant chatter of ducks as they played about in a plastic tray filled with water, not deep enough to swim in but big enough to paddle about in making relaxing splishy splashy sounds.
This was my little sanctuary, away from the boring vat, invoices and receipts.
In fact, I was just in the middle of re-landscaping project (I’m always in the middle of one project or another, John says it’s just an excuse to have burly builders around in the summer, in the hope they may take their tops off and give a post-menopausal woman a cheap thrill). Turning part of the garden into an Italian terrace leading to ‘Le Monde de Poulet‘ or ‘ChickenWorld‘ (it sounds much nicer in French, don’t you think?).
We already have a large, secure, two-story chicken house, with a ground floor area, with pool, for the ducks, but we had a Badger visit not long ago and it weakened the fortress, which we thought we’d patched up well enough.
BUT OBVIOUSLY HADN’T.
It was VERY early on Monday morning that I heard Idris, cockadoodling his little head off. The sun had only just risen and it was not yet 5am, so I turned over in bed and pulled the duvet over my head.
Oh, how I wish I had jumped up out of bed and sprinted down the garden path/building site to the chicken house. But to be honest I don’t know what I would have done, my sprint isn’t what most people would call a sprint and I would have been met with a horrible sight.
As it was, I tottered out at about 7am and even as I climbed the steps into the garden, I knew something was wrong. There was an uneasy silence, no quacking or hen pecking, even the pigeons seemed to be on mute and now I know what people mean by ‘a deathly silence‘.
Mr Fox had paid a visit.