In between seemingly endless hours of bloody overtime this weekend I’ve been out in the garden. Nothing weird about that – it’s my garden, it was daytime, and I wasn’t staring at the neighbours’ windows wearing just my pants, OK?
I was just in the garden doing jobs that needed doing. Fully clothed.
Anyway, I wanted to note how the garden feels strangely empty without the chickens.
Previously, you were never alone out there – a friendly face would always be watching, clucking quietly, and hoping to telepathically persuade you to give it whatever you had in your hand. Assuming that whatever you had was food.
And even if it wasn’t, give it to us give it to us, they would softly chant. You don’t want that whatever-it-is. Throw it to us…throw it to us…
Maybe that bit was just my imagination.
But since the infamous May Massacre things are far too quiet in the garden. It’s surprising how much a part of the natural order the chickens had become.
Both the girls have commented on this, but even the Lovely Melanie (who is on record as “hating those smelly birds”) has mentioned how, looking out of the kitchen window, the garden is strangely still: no bobbing heads and beaks keeping a keen eye on things, no instantly interested eyes hoping for scraps from anyone passing by.
I think we’ll all be glad when their replacements arrive on June 2nd. Once you’ve kept chickens in the back garden it’s hard going back to just boring old plants…