A day in the life of…

There is something delicious in waking up early knowing you don’t have to get up, you can snuggle back down and sleep for a few more precious minutes until eventually your conscience or your children get the better of you.
For me this is normality. A constant battle with what I would like to do and what I have to do. Mostly I am awake by 5.30 usually because that’s when my husband gets up and showers to get ready for work and our shower is, like me, not a lark. And so it complains bitterly waking The Littlest, who protests loudly at this daily intrusion on his dreams.
I note that when my husband is away the morning programme doesn’t really kick off until 6.30 by a request from The Boy that he would like to go to the loo (actually he’s more specific than that but I won’t go into details). I suggest that he doesn’t really need to share the minutiae of his daily bowel movements with me first thing in the morning and I pull the pillow back over my head dampening out the dawn chorus that is my household.
The pillow has been over my head since 5.30 when I shut out the sound of The Littlest – he understands that unless it is a real emergency he won’t get his mother’s attention until at least ten past seven.
Roughly fifteen minutes before the Alarm is due to go off, The Boy will say he’s hungry and five minutes later he will inform me that he needs help with his train set and a few minutes after that he’ll ask me whether it’s time to get up. From these constant interruptions I gather he has yet to comprehend the meaning of the grunts emanating from the depths of the duvet on my bed.
The Alarm springs into action with The Today programme on BBC Radio 4 but I cannot make out what they are saying over the incessant peeping that overshadows it. The peeping is part of the Alarm mechanism and something I know I cannot ignore. With the responsibility of children and getting them to school on time, it is a godsend. Many were the times, especially in my college years, that I was able to turn my Alarm off without even waking myself up.
I pride myself that I can get up, get washed, get dressed, get my children up washed and dressed, get my dogs out and fed, the cats fed, beds made, breakfast eaten and then cleared and put away, and in the car in 50 minutes - when seriously organised all this, which I believe to be a feat of extraordinary proportions, can even be done in 45 minutes but it takes an awful lot of effort and to be frank I am really not up to it at that time in the morning. Nor is the Whippet who I have to shout at from the bottom of the stairs just before I make my move…she is a lazy little cuss – no idea where she has got such a shocking habit!
However much I fine tune it though we always start off late because a fit of the ‘guilts’ will strike me just as I have successfully managed to squeeze The Littlest’s flailing limbs into his car seat.
The cause of the guilt is the sight of a group of expectant ducks looking at me from the top bank of the moat like a gaggle of star struck teenyboppers, occasionally bobbing their heads with suppressed excitement.
A quick glance at my watch, which is always five minutes fast, and I have just enough time if I don’t dawdle.
I run to the big metal bin and the ducks explode into flight laughing in excitement landing splish, splosh in the water, the noise of which alerts the girls who start to cackle and jostle within the hen hut. Ollie or one of the other cockerels will crow urging me to get a move on.
The feed bin is flung open and I dive to the bottom mentally cursing myself for not moving the grain over, if I had done so I wouldn’t now be teetering on the edge, scraping the bottom and I wouldn’t have a horrid black greasy line in the middle of my lovely clean cream jumper. I know I’ll have to go back inside and get my ubiquitous black gillet to hide the stain from the approbation of the impeccably turned out Yummies at school.
I throw the grain out in great scoopfuls before opening up the coop. I play a game with myself as I count the girls out checking them at the same time. What number will Blue be today? She’s the oldest of the flock and is meant to be an Old English Game but she looks nothing like them. She’s a sort of grey blue colour, each feather fringed with a dark line and her neck feathers are the colour of black treacle and marmalade. She has hard golden eyes and a predatory look. She brooks no nonsense.
Once they are all out my attention turns to the nursery, Splodge is flustered and arcs her wings protectively around her babies. I am not in the least bit impressed she’s just too soft but it’s sweet of her to try to be aggressive. Nothing like Mrs Brown who frankly scares the bejeebers out of me. Mrs Brown has drawn blood and I am very respectful - that or I wear big leather gloves.
I double-check everyone is out and knowing I have to go back into the house I collect the eggs as well. I always thank the girls as I trot past on my way inside, a clutch of blue and pale brown eggs gingerly held - I pray I’ll get to the door before dropping them.
I finally get a move on and start up our faithful Dora Disco Land Rover and we swing out the drive, late. The Boy demanding I put ‘Harry Potter’ on while I peer left and right over the head of Tigger, our car dog. He likes to know where he is going but it is tricky driving in a straight line with a hairy Jack Russel on your lap and his feet on the steering wheel.
We career through the village and out onto the open road playing eye spy over the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry and the comings and goings at Hogwarts. Crossing fingers I veer right down a back road in Stowmarket and I am in luck there is no train to hold me up – much to the chagrin of The Littlest.
I focus on the job at hand and realise that we will make it before the bell rings at school. Our journey is about half and hour and soon eye spy begins to wane. For a while there is only Stephen Fry.
Nearing the school the boys demand their daily game of Animal Noises. I ask each of them in turn to make the noise of a particular animal. It is the only game where The Littlest can join in. He loves it. And beams with delight when we cheer his interpretations. I always save the best one to last timing it so that we are all – including the dog - howling like wolves as we race up the long drive to the school steps.
Safely depositing The Boy it is then a race to Stowmarket to get The Littlest to Nursery on time and then flogging it back to the homestead before the Builders arrive. My life in the house would mean nothing without builders…
I have had builders here since 2002 and although they disappear for a few months at a time there is always work going on of some sort. This causes me deep anxiety as I have yet to unpack properly since getting married.
This may seem a trifle unusual but I moved from my flat to live with my husband whose house was already kitted out (thus no room for my stuff); then we sold the flat and the house and moved here. But here was not quite prepared for our invasion so we stored everything in boxes - copious and commodious large brown cardboard boxes each with a number that correlated with a page in a Reporters notebook listing everything within the box down to the last fuse. I promptly lost the notebooks.
During the years we have managed to accumulate a vast amount of stuff and I mean vast! The contents of three other households have been added to that which we already owned. We live on the principal that until we sort ourselves out nothing can be thrown away in case we have a use for it or more importantly the part we have in our hands may have a corresponding bit in one of the boxes that will shed light on exactly what we have. We don’t actually know what we do have and this presents problems - a barn full of problems…
We promise ourselves that we will get organised as soon as the house is finished…hence my anxiety – we never seem to be anywhere near finishing!
In the interest of keeping my builders happy and content and thus working very hard on finishing all the work at this time of the day I produce the first batch of teas and coffees – and nab one for myself.
I totter around all the cables and duck under the arc light to see what the chaps are up to. We’ll discuss what they are doing and what they hope to achieve and then before I know it we move on to a more esoteric type of conversation and then just as suddenly we drop into double entendres and innuendo - I usually leave on a high feeling well satisfied with what is going on and trip back into the kitchen to finish my tea.
The dogs need to go out again I duly oblige flicking the door open and letting them stream out amid barks and yaps and a swish of tails. The cats yell at me again and I stare at them in mock incomprehension - they need feeding and Siamese are very vocal.
Finally at about 10 I get to my office and after negotiating a path through the piles of paper and mounds of magazines without making the dust spiral into the air, I make it to the computer switch and start to process work.
Like the majority of those who work from home I am easily distracted: the ‘should of life’ getting in the way of ‘want of dreams’. A bit like this really….
Depending on the severity of deadlines I will either be focussed or not. As usual when I am not, nothing happens and when I am, all hell breaks loose! The interruptions of the day are not all instigated by me I’ll have you know.
Roger, my 65 year old neighbour and former owner of the farm, may come over sometimes to show me a nest he’s found, or to tell me there’s long tailed tits down the other side of the hedge for me to go and have a look at. Perhaps he wants to borrow something and before I know it I am being regaled by a story of the farm from the past, or an anecdote about some character in the Village long forgotten by most. I love these stories and feel very mean if I have to call a halt to them but sometimes you just have to. The problem is there’s nothing Roger likes more than an audience and the audience at his home has heard it all before so I have often found him wandering about the house with the builders but wherever he is there’s always laughter and I like that.
Sometime during the day I will get hungry and scout about the fridge for a delectable treat failing that, as I never have any, I just bung something between two slices of bread and eat it semi-on-the-hoof accompanied by a big mug of tea. Cake and biccies are my biggest weakness and heaven forbid if the boys have been given chocolate – it never lasts and I forever have to replace it.
During the morning I will have been down to replenish the builder’s tea and coffee and will do another round at lunchtime. The next one is just before I collect the Boy from school at 3pm and then one on my return. That’s five rounds in a day and when we had 11 builders in site it was quite a feat of memory as well as washing up.
Once I have collected The Boy my time is devoted to him whether he appreciates it or not. Today was a ‘not’ because I kept saying ‘No’ and he said he hated me to which I replied: “I know!” I couldn’t resist and burst out laughing at his expression to which I was told I was a horrid stinky mother…I quite obviously deserved it. Today we went to fetch some make up so I can turn him into The Hungry Caterpillar for World Book Day on Thursday. I have been given 48 hours notice and have had to draw upon my secret weapon…
I don’t talk about it much but I have a man in my barn.
J.
No part of my day would be complete without talking to J. He’s my best friend and I have no idea why on earth he puts up with us all. Suffice to say we ALL know we’re on to a good thing from The Littlest to Dear Charlie so in an effort to ensure he never leaves we made him a Godparent. Now he’s stuck with us forever…
J as an upholsterer of rare talent can sew and I can’t. Therefore I say to him we need to make a caterpillar costume he raises an eyebrow and says: “WE?”
“Well you actually as you know I can’t sew – it is an emergency!!!!”
By five it’s time for the boys’ tea and the great process of going to bed starts. As quickly as we get up is as quickly as the day draws to a close. Rounded off by a story for each – I’m jealous of the time with them here as no matter how horrid I may have been this is the bit of the day when I can make it up to them. For having to work, for being short tempered, for giving them baked beans yet again.
Then it’s off to work again until Dear Charlie gets home, maybe catch a sly bit of Emmerdale and a glass or wine. Depends on how panicky I feel about the deadlines… I’ve been known to work until 1am in the morning. In fact I was working that late the night before I gave birth to The Littlest. Between the two deadlines there was only five hours!!!! Something I keep mentioning to my publisher in case he thinks I am not as dedicated to the magazine as everyone else.
Dear Charlie pulls in the drive and the dogs go bonkers – a useful early warning system – alerting me to rush and grab a ribbon for my hair put on a frock and to greet him with a great big smile, his whisky and his carpet slippers at the door. I think he’d actually quite like that but we can all dream can’t we?

This is a recorded message….

“As of 12 noon this day Monday 10th of December the requirement for you to house your birds has been lifted….”
I have rushed down the stairs, shot out of the door and run over to Stalag 57 and flung open the gate and told them they are free. And guess what – they stood stock-still and just blinked at me. Then they started to get all startled and there was much clucking and squawking and a flurry of feathers until I realised that in my excitement I hadn’t shut the front door properly and the dogs had followed me outside.
It could have been a tragedy! So within moments of saying: “You’re free!” I bolted the gate and removed the dogs indoors.
Slightly more calmly I re-opened the gate and there they all were at the back of the run in one great big huddle. I could see they were not impressed and to be honest I got the feeling that they were unsure whether or not to believe me.
To show my good intentions I scooped out some corn and started to call them outside. It took some doing I can tell you but it was Stupid who finally plucked up enough courage – it was ever thus with her food will always beat good sense. You could see the others watching but as soon as she started to eat and no one pounced on her the rest quickly followed.
There was such a lot of noise – I had missed it but hadn’t realised. Usually when I let them out in the mornings they are a noisy, cackling bunch shouting about being left behind or that someone is in their way or just chatting to each other as they scrabble around for breakfast.
And while they were incarcerated they had been quiet apart from the occasional chuckle or crow – it was quite a cacophony a few minutes ago and now I am upstairs telling you this and they are running about and jumping up and down and spreading their wings and Ollie is taking some down to the Orchard and Mr Tickle is squabbling with the Burnt brothers as to who is boss, Stupid is looking to go in the barn and see what the builder’s are up to and Stan is among the flower beds and Oh! It is good to see them out!

Stalag 57

They’ve dug their way out, they’ve ram raided their way out and now they are ganging up on me in a surge for freedom…my chickens don’t like being caged.
However as a voluntary registered poultry keeper I have done my bit and my chickens are interned for the duration.
The bio-secure cage took two days to build and during that time I fed and watered the flock indoors – this was quite a tricky job as the hen hut is not exactly commodious and nor does it have a solid floor.
After tripping up and spilling the water all over me and then slipping on it rather painfully across the slatted floor into a heap of outraged feathers I decided it would be appropriate to wear Wellingtons and overalls rather than nightwear and slippers for such a job.
The cage is such that no wild birds can enter and nor can the rats. It is supposed to prevent the chickens from escaping as well – we’ve had to make a few modifications…
There is an outer fence about five and a half feet high and spanning that a roof leading to a mid point about six and a half feet high which in turn leads up to the apex of the hen hut at about eight foot. The fence is chicken wire covered with a plastic fruit cage covering being light enough to create a roof without me having to do major works, which I would have neither the money nor time to complete. A new gate is heavy enough to swing shut when I enter and if I say so myself looks OK.
It was such a relief for all when I could at last let them out. They shot through the door, slithered down the ramp and came to a rather stunned stop. I had tried to disguise the fact that they could not wander around as much as before (30 ft square versus 4 acres) by bringing in a load of windfall apples and putting up roosts and a huge pile of chippings to play in but freedom is after all freedom and however many things you are given to play with just doesn’t match up.
It has been pathetic to see them all hunched and miserable, the cockerels’ tails drooping but it seems they do not give up hope. Within two hours the chicks and several of the bantams had escaped by scratching a hole underneath the gate and it wasn’t until I saw Ollie, (my rather large white cockerel) struggling to squeeze himself rather unsuccessfully underneath that I realised we had had a break out.
It seemed pointless running round the farm trying to catch the escapees and so I let them all out in the hope of feeding them all back in later in the day. In the meantime I amused myself by digging the earth out round the door and struggling to lay a large piece of stone at its base. Mission accomplished and it was time to get them back in three hours later and in the dark I gave up.
Strangely enough the following day I was able to feed all the stragglers back in which goes to prove that either chickens have short memories or that their stomachs are bigger than their brains.
There were no escapees until the afternoon when Ollie and Stanley (Ollie’s glamorous half brother) managed to throw themselves at the gate until it popped open. I repeated the previous day’s performance but gave up much more quickly and surveyed them rather dolefully from my office window as they pranced around in the sunshine in the orchard, scratching vigorously at the earth and chasing each other round the apple trees or else walking sedately behind the proud cockerels. My heart was very heavy watching them. Their last day of freedom…AGAIN.
Now the gate is tied with baler twine and so far no escapees… I deliver scraps from the kitchen and windfall apples and they lay eggs and are resigned: I think…but you never know quite what they will do next….

H5N1 - the start of all that....

We are less than 10 miles from Redgrave where the H5N1 strain of Avian Flu has been confirmed and now my chickens are under threat.
I am starting to think the unthinkable and am preparing for a rough couple of weeks.
Although I only have 40 or so birds it is impossible for me to restrict their movements and keep them from contamination by wild birds. My home is surrounded by two moats and we have no way of preventing wild duck from landing here. My hens are free range.
Even getting them inside will not help as wrens, blue tits and sparrows abound here. Although I have laughed about bio-security I have taken it very seriously and created an area where the hens can come indoors – the problem is for how long and do I really want to keep my beautiful birds indoors? They have never been restricted – I almost feel it would be too cruel.
Tomorrow we will keep them in the hut and round up the more feral of the group. We will cull all the surplus cockerels keeping just Goat Shed Boy, Ollie, Stanley and Mr Tickle. We‘ll get the other to areas safe and start to move the birds in….I will call DEFRA and see what advice they give … I am not hopeful.

The sad tale of the Goat Shed and Chicken Hut fowl (apologies to the Bard)

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Rookyard, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where chicken blood makes chicken feet unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of cross patched cockerels take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous cock crows
Do with their death bury their poor flocks' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd fight,
And the continuance of their harangued flocks' rage,
Which, but their cockerel's end, nought could put to flight,
Is now a moments' traffic of our stage;
The which, if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.…

My flock, as you will no doubt have realised, roosts in two quite separate areas of the farm. Both used to intermingle, pass the time of day, scratch at the same patches and generally get on with each other.
Not so two Summers ago. Due to a gradual reduction in the number of hens caused by illness, old age, crossing the road and Mr Foxy Fowler; there was a great need to cull the cockerels – if just for the sanity of those poor remaining hens who would dart from nest to nest as surreptitiously as possible to avoid the avid attentions of their lustful cousins, brothers, fathers and sons.
Thus dispatched; there remained two cocks to crow. Pitt the Younger – a feisty little but rather beautiful bantam of about four years and Big Boy, an extremely handsome Leg Bar cross cockerel of a somewhat startling stature compared to the majority of the bantams on the farm.
All seemed fine; then one morning there was the most almighty hullabaloo; I dashed down from my study, grabbed a suitable looking weapon - turned out to be an umbrella – and prepared to take on any vulpine enemy.
My neighbour, Roger, also came running and to our amazement we witnessed the most savage and vitriolic fight I have ever encountered. Quite literally feathers, blood and gore flew. The outcome of which, was that as far as we could see, Big Boy had won the day.
All should have been settled. But as the course of that summer wore on, I could not but notice that there was more scuffles and general upheaval than before. The two flocks avoided each other; and from the upstairs window you could watch them taking great pains to ensure that they never met during the day.
The Hen Hut became quite empty and it was then that I realised that despite that seminal fight, Pitt the Younger was winning the war. Big Boy had stopped crowing and was reluctant to even come out of the Hen Hut.
But power or absolute power, has the ability to corrupt – absolutely. And after finding myself stalked as an enemy by my pint sized cockerel, there could only be one outcome. Pitt the Younger, for his overtly aggressive ways, would have to be dispatched to the great farmyard in the sky.
The day dawned, the deed was swift. All done and dusted or was it?
Despite the relief afforded to the hen community; Big Boy was clearly not all right. He still refused to come out of the hut. He was still reluctant to crow. And one balmy August evening, I noticed that his breathing was laboured. A visit to the vet confirmed my worst fears and Big Boy joined Pitt the Younger in the vast beyond. During some fight in the previous weeks the bantam had inflicted a fatal kick to Big Boy causing a rupture from which his decline was to be inevitable. So beyond the grave Pitt the Younger killed my handsome gentle giant. And all at once the farm was cockereless.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:
For never was a story of less joy
Than this of Pitt and my Big Boy.

Luckily, in the course of nature there is NEVER a lack of cockerels for long and to fill in the gap Ollie and Stanley came to roost - Arcana/Leg Bar cross brothers. They roam the farm and keep down the uppity youngsters. Culling takes place every Autumn/Early Spring and all is calm - on the surface. But who knows with chickens?

The man who was afraid of chickens….

I have just found the man from the electricity board in the small barn sitting on top of all the building paraphernalia surrounded by about forty chickens. He’s a gibbering wreck and has obviously been shouting for ages as his voice is quite hoarse.
I can’t understand why I didn’t hear him but there again it could be because I had the radio on very loud in my office so that I wouldn’t be able to hear Dear Charlie throwing up next door. Dear Charlie says he’s a bit of a bell weather when it comes to bad food and glares are me balefully as if it was my fault he’s got food poisoning. I haven’t so it can’t have been anything I cooked. I blame it on all that popcorn he ate when we went to the cinema on Sunday. He was most beastly and ate the majority of it himself so that by the time the Movie started there wasn’t a scrap to be had.
Meanwhile back to the man who came to read the meter. I only discovered him when I noticed out of the corner of my eye Ollie my white cockerel running across the lawn as if the wrath of God were after him.
Obviously I thought something dreadful had happened to the chickens – foxes, Hen Harriers, the dreaded mink! Switching off the radio I could hear a faint: HELP! So dashing outside I was confronted with a gaggle of chickens and a very flustered cockerel all darting in and out of the barn.
I ventured inside and there he was. A man afraid of chickens. I helped him down and shooed the girls away. Ollie was being most annoying and kept flapping at me while the man tried to hide behind me – I got quite cross and was about to tell the silly man off when I noticed that he had gone very, very white! Thinking that he needed to sit down I bundled him into his car and called the chickens to me. Biddable things they followed me to the grain bin for some food.
I was just returning to apologise for my chicken’s behaviour and explain it was because they thought he was one of the builders who always feeds them his sandwiches – he [the builder] hates the way his wife makes them but hasn’t the heart to tell her after 10 years of marriage! He has a standing order at the Village Shop for prawn cocktail ones - when to the screeching of tyres and the grating of gears I saw the meter man leave in a cloud of dust down the drive. I have no idea if he did his job or not but I don’t think he’s coming back again in a hurry.

Dancing with Ducklings

Skittering across the moat are four burnt marmalade ducklings catching the bugs that dance just out of sight above the water. One minute they’re on one side the next they are on the other, sometimes they leap out of the water to catch a tasty morsel – they really are quite as comical just as they are when they do it across the lawn – except they trip up over the daisies on the lawn!
The original batch I’m afraid are all long gone despite all my efforts to save them – as they say nature is ruthless in her efficiency. Basically we have too many drakes dropping in. There were four of them who pestered Mrs Duck Nos 1 so much that it left her exhausted and her ducklings bewildered and scattered about across the garden. In fact we found out that the drakes would batter the ducklings out of the way in their desperation to get to Mrs Duck Nos 1. And then I’m afraid Mrs Duck Nos 1 was just too tired, distracted and generally not able to keep the family together and what with foxes, rooks and various others lurking in the undergrowth the whole lot vanished. Mrs Duck Nos 1 is now laying again and perhaps there won’t be quite as much drakish desperation in a months time.
Meanwhile Mrs Duck Nos 2 and her ducklings seem to be thriving and she is able to totter around the farm without being stalked by anything other than Big Chicken Ollie my white Rooster. Ollie believes everything belongs to him – cats, dogs, laundry and of course every hen that crosses his path. He has even tried it on me and although I will admit he IS handsome he is not quite my cup of tea – bit of a slam-dunk type of guy and very, very jealous.
It is quite the most glorious evening, pregnant with the expectation of summer, dozy, warm peaceful. I can hear the aerobatics chap in his plane. He practices above out house I really have no idea why except that the farm it is pretty easy to spot from the air. We seem to be a turning point for all sorts of air traffic from Hercules, helicopters and various other military air support – and Roger says it has ever been thus!
There are pictures of the bomb that was dropped in the First World War and everyone from the farm standing in the trench that it made in the back field close to the house. Then there is the photo of the airman, who was downed a few months later, resplendent in his Biggles’ goggles, flying helmet and while silk scarf. We even have bits of the wooden propeller from his plane nailed to the barn. The airman in standing it was once the walled garden – it looks beautiful – and he, well he looks handsome, and strong and exciting. I wonder what happened to him?There’s a bigger splash and a large quack, Mrs Duck Nos 2 is calling her offspring into order and off they go in a perfect line behind her, home to bed – a place I shall wander off too as well.