I dunno what happened to the winter snow and freezing temperatures predicted on the weather forecast. It's a lovely sunny day here in sarf whales, warm enough to sit on a wooden bench in the garden for 20 minutes before any noticeable bum numbness registered.

In celebration of this Happy Egg Day I have made the hens gleeful by lifting the plastic compost bin in their henitentiary yard, giving them access to a 4 foot high treasure trove of semi composted kitchen waste, lovingly seasoned with juicy worms and crunchy woodlice. Other gardeners are reduced to using a spade and the sweat of their own brows to turn the compost, but chickens are just so much more dedicated to the shifting and sifting of protocompost. They'll have pulled it all out into a fine tilth covering the entire henitentiary in a few days time. All I will need to do is go in with a shovel and heave it back inside the compost bin.

I ws going to include a small video clip of happy chickens making blissfully soft and contented clucking noises as they peck gently at the mound, pulling loose little morsels of henny delight, but someone forgot to recharge the camra batteries, so you'll just have to use your imaginations for now.

The hens stopped laying sometime in November. Agda and Elin are both moulting, little Mary has gone back to being top hen, and pushing them around the way she did when they all arrived, before Agda and Elin grew so much bigger than her.

Since doing all that fox proofing work on Chookingham Palace and the henitentiary yard I have got into the lazy habit of letting them put themselves to bed at night. There didn't seem to be any point in closing the little wooden door on the henhouse at night, and then getting up at the crack of dawn to let them out again. Instead I've left the door open, since nothing else can get into their enclosure, and have allowed them to decide their own bed and breakfast times.

This has the advantage of allowing me to snooze until noon, before stumbling out to feed them. Until very recently they haven't been eating very much at all. I put this down to them taking a rest from producing a large percentage of their body weight each day in eggs. They were picking out the mixed corn and leaving the layers pellets in the feed trough. So I have amused myself by feeding them tasty treats. Porridge with sprouts and cranberries was on their Christmas menu.

Last week I experienced some subsidence in the ground underneath the weed membrane and chipped bark that surrounds Chookingham palace. I stood on the ground and my foot sank down to the ankle. Weird. The ground on either side was firm, but it was as if a little gully had appeared, leading from the foundations of the henhouse and across to the raised bed that stands in front of the wall into nextdoor's garden. I pondered it for a while, wondering if it had been caused by run off from the recent rains, and resolved to watch out not to twist an ankle in it, and to give some consideration to filling it in at a later date when I CBA.

The day before yesterday, when I went out to feed the chooks at lunchtime they were ever so cross and hungry. Their food trough was completely empty, and they were pushing, shoving and grumbling at each other in their hurry to scoff the food I'd brought. I thought it was nice to see them getting their appetites back and wondered if this meant they were nearing the end of their moult.

Yesterday the same thing happened. I came out at lunchtime, the chickens were starving, the trough was empty. So I filled it up extra much. Today it was empty again, the chickens were hungry and cross, and there was a large round hole in the ground in the middle of their favourite dust bathing area.

Go on, tell me you guessed it right back at the first signs of subsidence! Rats! Sneaky cunning rats tunneling away beneath the ground, not coming up for air until they are right next to the chicken food. How do they do that? I've been looking round the outside of the chicken run every day, expecting to see signs of digging if something is trying to get inside. But the first sign of these rats was the magically disappearing food. I think they must have had a hole that came up right behind the trough where I couldn't see it, and now they've probably got so fat from stuffing themselves with organic layers pellets with extra omega 3 that they couldn't squeeze into the old hole and had to dig a socking great huge one right in the middle of dust bath.

Anyone got a Jack Russel they'd consider loaning me? Just for a few nights? I did consider sitting up and waiting for them with night vision goggles and an elephant gun, but decided the neighbours might worry. So now I have shut the food inside with the chickens, closed the pophole door and removed the gangplank, and will have to crawl out of bed at first light to let them out.

Karen

In an attempt to hide part of the previous entry behind a cut I accidentally created a second entry, and then deleted the original one, that had your comments. Also, I managed to amputate the tail end off the entry, so that the pretty flower pictures are all gorn.

Please don't anyone feel bad about failing to celebrate my 50th. I wouldn't have been capable of any more celebrations. It took me over a month to recouperate as it was. Any extra excitment could well have proved fatal.

Recovering from all the excitment of turning 50 and having umptymumble people come to stay. After that I have been doing stuff in the garden, and recovering from doing stuff in the garden.

Those cluckers got the better of me, again.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=54&Itemid=90

Early this morning, when I let the ladies out of their safe little house, I discovered an egg on the roosting perch. Surprising, because both Mary and Agda have been using the nesting box, and have never laid anywhere else. My best guess was that Elin had come into lay in the night, and been either too dozey, or too surprised by the whole proceedure to go looking for a more secluded nesting spot.

This afternoon there were three perfectly formed eggs in the nesting box. So that settles it, all three darlings are now doing their chickenly duty. A celebration was held, involving spring greens. Daft name that, spring greens, for something you can buy in Asda in late October, grown in the UK too, according to the lable.

I've been having fun this afternoon. Rented a little Vauxhall Corsa automatic for the day, to try it out before deciding if it would be suitable for transporting the hens to Hampshire next month. Did I mention that I'm going to be almost-grown-up-sitting the nieces for a week while their mum flies off to New Orleans for wedding anniversary celebrations? Couldn't get a hen sitter, so instead they are going to pay the car rental, and I'm driving down in finest hill billy style, with a car full of chickens (in cat boxes) with their roosting perch wrapped in black plastic sacks, so that they have somewhere familiar to sleep once safely tucked away into Liz's empty greenhouse?

I've never driven an automatic before, but it was dead easy, no stalling at roundabouts cos I've accidentally put it in third, no accidental opening of the window because I wasn't concentrating and my right hand still insists it should be doing the gear changes - even in right hand drive cars. Only one small problem, after I brought it home and played about backing it onto the hard standing, I went for a cup of tea, and afterwards I couldn't get it to start again. Had to accost a group of neighbours, and have them remind me about pushing in the button that hides on the front of the gear stick. It doesn't have all the lovely cubby holes that the megane grand scenic had, or the wonderful digital display, but it makes up for that by being automatic and so nifty to park.

It's fun having a car again, and I don't have to bring it back until half past two tomorrow. Hope I can get up reasonably early tomorrow and have another good play with it.

I'm delighted to report that the chickens quite obviously prefer the organic layers pellets to the pellets they had with them when they arrived.

Anyone know how to make a side menu with links in? All I could find was the instructions for adding a link to a journal entry.

So here goes.

bean-sprouts One family's search for the good life

and, on a non chicken related front, but I think I'm in love with this wench

I Blame The Patriarchy. The patriarchy-blaming blog that never misses dinner


Read them both.

The little black hen is laying an egg most days now. The eggs are so big that I worry about her, and if she eats enough to compensate for dropping such a large proprotion of her body weight in nutrients each day.

The bigger eggs, which come after a delay of 36 hours or more tend to have two yolks inside. So I guess the first yolk got delayed, or the second yolk hurried down in time for them both to end up inside the same shell.

Not having a car can be annoying at times. I had to pay a tenner to get the local feed shop to deliver the bales of straw and wood shavings. So I was delighted to find an online shop that sells layers pellets. I've ordered a bag of organic pellets, in the hope the hens will like them a bit better than the ordinary layers pellets. I got a sack of pellets from the bloke who sold me the birds, so that they would have the kind of food they were used to, but they don't really like them much at all.

Found another egg this afternoon. A bit bigger than the last one, and still warm from the chicken. May have to go and buy tomatoes and mushrooms tomorrow so I can enliven this daft diet with a breakfast fry up.

Great joy is mine! The first egg has been laid. Isn't she a beauty? Couldn't you just sit and admire her all night long?


At long last. I was starting to wonder what on earth I was doing wrong. Should I be force feeding them with layers pellets? Did they have any intention of coming into lay before next Easter? Ethel and Minna are coming to stay on 9th October, and I was hoping to have a steady supply of breakfast eggs, and souffle fixings by then.

Agnes and Elin are still quite obviously going through a gawky teenage phase, so I didn't expect anything from them yet. They are going to be quite a bit bigger than little Mary by the time they are full grown. Mary has been a respectably mature looking young henny matron for weeks, with dangly wattles and a large floppy comb all in a glorious bright red that contrasts so prettily with her lovely black-green plumage.

Since they arrived Mary has been top hen, but recently the other two have taken less notice of her bossy ways. Last night, when I went to shut them in, I discovered Agnes and Elin sitting next to each other, with Mary crouched crossly on top of their backs. As top hen she always managed to insist on getting the warmest space, the middle chicken of three. Agnes was in her usual space next to the wall, but Elin was obviously staking a claim to be top hen, by snuggling close and refusing to budge, even after Mary perched on top of her. Perched and pooped of course, like chickens do, but Elin wasn't going to move, and all they seemed to have gone to sleep like that. I lifted sleepy Mary, and put her on the perch next to Elin, and she hardly woke at all. Ah the dramas of the hen coop, why would anybody ever want to watch any other soap opera?

Did Mary decide to finally part with this first egg in a bid to regain her top chook status? Or were my threatening mumbles about sage and onion stuffing finally getting to her?

So, what to do with the first egg? Photograph it, naturally, but then what? Blow the contents for scrambled eggs, and hang the shell in pride of place somewhere indoors?

Old George nextdoor had his shed broken into last night. I noticed the back gate was open and phoned to ask if he'd like me to go and close it. Turned out whoever it was who left the gate open also left the shed door open, with the padlock still in place, but the hasp hanging loose. George says they're welcome to anything they might have found in there, he hasn't been able to walk that far for years, so he can't even remember what was in there, probably some ancient garden tools that had seen many decades of wear. I just hope we don't have any chicken rustlers in the area.

Plenty of shady characters though. A gaggle of worried looking Lidl personnel stopped me at the till, saying something about my bags. I thought they suspected me of shoplifting, and handed over the empty bags willingly. Which caused even more concern. "It's missing. He took it. I knew he took something!" Finally I cottoned to the fact that they thought my purse had been nicked. A dodgy looking bloke that security was keeping an eye on had dived into the shopping bag I'd left hanging from the trolley, and then scarpered when he realised he had been spotted by a member of staff. They all presumed he had made off with my purse, but luckily it was in my trouser pocket, safe and sound. Even I am not often daft enough to leave my purse in a bag hanging from a shopping trolley, and then wander off and forget it, not that it never happens mind....

I'm a bad, bad, bad mother hen. Yesterday afternoon I revarnished the chicken coop. This meant removing the gangplank, and closing the pophole.

The chickens were allowed out into the garden, since they refused to pay the slightest attention to my admonishments about not eating the drips of varnish that fell down inside the run.

They had a jolly time, digging deep holes in the blueberry bed, scritching the expensive ericacious compost down on to the lawn. Nipping off the last few strands of cherished and tender flame creeper that had managed to survive the summer, and biting the heads off most of the polyanthus seedlings.

Round about then I finished the varnishing, and noticed what they had been doing. So I bribed them to leave the plants alone by offering them some corn. Mr Nextdoor recommended feeding them from the palm of your hand, he did this with his pigeons to make them very tame and easy to handle. I can recommend not doing this with hens, especially if the hens in question have very sharp beaks and no inhibitions. The hardy calloused hands of gardeners might just survive relatively undamaged, but children and the tender handed are unlikely to enjoy the experience.

With corn it was easy to lure them back inside the run. Leaving me free to go back indoors and back to the work of revamping the lezziegardens website. Joomla template making, easy for some.

Time flew. Around 7 pm I stopped to get a mug of tea, thought about the chickens, and thought "they can go up and roost on their own, it doesn't matter if I'm a bit late closing the pophole one night". Anyone spotted the glaring fault in this line of reasoning?

At 9 o'clock, at least 45 minutes after roosting time, I remembered the chickens again. Only this time I also remembered that I'd taken their gangplank and shut the pophole door when I was varnishing the front of the coop. Oh guilt. Oh shame. Oh wickedness.

Grabbed a torch and scuttled out down the dark garden, lamenting fluently. Found all three pullets sleeping soundly in the bit of run that goes under the coop. Mary had snared the top of the drinker, as being the only perch-able object, Agda and Elin were snuggled up together on the grass. My opening the side door to the run, and lifting the hinged lid of the coop produced no more than a gentle murmur of clucking from the poor neglected sleepers. It wasn't until I grabbed Agda that there was any protest at all, and that was all in the form of frightened fluttering from her. Once her feet felt the reassurance of the well known wooden perch beneath them she got the point, grabbed hold, and sat clucking in a mixture of annoyance and content.

Meanwhile, Mary is still roosting on top of the galvanised drinker, her scaly feet wrapped round the cold flat metal of the carrying handle. Getting her off is no easy task. I lift a chicken, and find myself holding a chicken who is in turn holding a heavy metal drinker, containing a couple of litres of water. Oh the extra guilt! Manage to wedge chicken into armpit, and use other hand to wheedle chicken feet off handle of drinker. Get well deserved scratched arm from angry flapping chicken. Mary's a fighter when provoked, and even when she does realise that she has the wooden perch under her feet she is still cross. Stretching her neck, squawking angrily, hopping from the perch to the edge of the open roof of the coop, and threatening to fly off again. I have to push her back onto the perch and almost close the lid of the coop roof before she decides there is no current threat and starts to settle down.

The only good thing about all this curfuffle is that Elin has been woken by it, and has fled from underneath the coop out into the main run. While I am being taught the error of my ways by Mary's claws she has already found the gangplank, and open pop hole door. She's standing outside, looking in, waiting to see if I eat the other two. As soon as I close the roof to stop Mary flying away, Elin clambers inside the coop under her own steam, a bit of fluttering and clucking later and they are all settled down, doing that sleepy clucky murmur that means they'd be fast asleep if only they could get some peace and quiet.

So there you have it. It's a jolly good job there aren't any social workers on the look out for neglectful and incompetent chicken minders. The RSPCA are kept busy by even worse monsters than myself, and the only punishment I'm likely to face is from the voice inside my head, who isn't going to let me forget in a hurry.

The moral of this story is "Before you leave the chickens to make their own way to bed, do be sure that you haven't shut them out of the bedroom."

Finally got the lawn mowed, for the first time since the cluckers moved in. High time it was done, but I put it off initially to avoid frightening them, and then the weather turned wet.

They didn't exactly relish the experience of having the lawn mower passing outside their run. While it was invisible round the back of the coop they tolerated the noise, clucking and scuttling around in the run in great dismay. As soon as the monstrous grass guzzling machine hove into view they were off, up the gangplank, and into the shelter of the coop. I could see beady eyes, peeking out through the ventilation netting.

It took a good long while after the noise had ceased, and the lawn mower was safely put away, before they condescended to come back out again. Very carefully. Their distrust soon vanished when they realised that I'd emptied the contents of the clippings box into the run. What joy, mounds of chopped grass to strut and scratch about in. All the grass you can eat, and more, cut into bite sized pieces, and strewn beneath your feet. Pullet heaven. First they just sucked down masses of grass, like hungry people eating spaghetti. Then they obviously started to feel a bit full, and instead of eating the grass they've been scratching it out of the way, and bending beady eyes towards the ground, in search of scurrying creepy crawlies. Bit early for that when the grass has only just been dropped, but by tomorrow it'll be colonised by yummy woodlice and earwigs.

They lulled me into a false sense of security, by seeming so happy just to cluck about inside the garden. So I let them out at 5 o'clock this afternoon, and went back indoors to read a gardening magazine.
Around 7 pm there was a ring on the doorbell, and Helen from two doors down had come to tell me that one of my chickens had got into George's garden, which is next to her own.
So out I went to encourage Mary (it would be Mary) back to my side of the net fence. The daft little clucker kept sticking her head through the mesh, and then pushing really hard with her body, and getting very upset when she didn't get back through. I tried to lift the bottom of the fence up enough to make a space for her to get through. Did she thank me and scuttle back through the chicken sized gap that was costing me so much effort to hold open? Did she heckers like, she scuttled off further down the garden, avoiding my nasty human hand that was holding the wire net.
Next clever idea was to lift one of my plastic chairs over the fence, so that she could hop up onto it, and from there easily jump back into my garden. She ran under the chair several times, and kept on sticking her daft head into the netting and pushing so her feet scrabbled on the concrete path!
Time to get the trusty net-on-a-stick, and do a bit of trespassing nextdoor myself. I wonder if George noticed, and what he thought of it if he did? Thank goodness he isn't as security conscious as me, the bolt to his back gate is easy to reach from outside, so I could let myself in without having to hurdle the fence.
Helen tried to stifle her amusement at my attempts to catch the dratted hen, who was wise to the net since last time she experienced it's embrace, and dashed off clucking in terror as soon as it descended. Old George doesn't get out in his garden anymore, he can't get down the step from the back door without great risk and difficulty, so he pays a bloke to come round and weed whack it every 6 weeks or so. The result is shortish grass, and mounds of bindweed covering what used to be currant bushes and the foundations of a greenhouse. Treacherous footing for the unwary chicken chaser, I was glad to have Helen standing by in case I turned an ankle and ended up sitting on my bum amongst the greenery, with a daft chicken who would probably come and roost on me if I sat down.
Finally caught the squawking critter, and heaved her over the fence. When I returned to the garden, carrying the chickenfishingnet over my shoulder, all three pullets ran off acting as if they thought I was the grim reaper coming with a sickle to get them!
They were far too flighty to be herded back into prison, so I ended up sitting in the shed as the rain pelted the roof, waiting for it to get late enough for them to return of their own free will.
By eight o'clock they were snuggled up on their roosting perch, so I battened down the hatches and gave them a serious lecture about the dangers of leaving our garden. Then I warned them that it would be a good long while before they got out again, if they ever did, and came back indoors to get warm.

The sweat pea obelix blew over in that last storm we had. I carried it over to the compost, but discovered that the cunningly entangled web of invisible nylon fishing line I'd used to give them something to cling to was a right pain when the time came to separate the plants from the structure. So I just walked off and left the tangled mess for another day.

That day came today. I was talking on the phone with a friend in Sweden listening to the wind buffeting the garden, and then as I watched the metal arch holding the broadbeans and butternut squash vines slowly buckled and folded towards the ground. I knew I should have tied it to the wall somehow!

Just been out harvesting several collanders full of runner beans, and yellow french beans that got squished when the arch collapsed. Useless flimsy metal arch, it broke in several places, and it was a simple job to snap off bits that were hanging loose. The side of the arch with the butternut squash was still standing firm, but the rest of it, including the top arch was in bits. Time to disentangle the obelix, shoved into the ground next to the squash it gives some small hope that the squash can stay upright long enough to ripen. I must say that growing them climbing up an arch has been much more successful than last years attempt at growing them on the ground. The vines spread out in all directions, but there was only one small, not very tasty fruit. I think the fruits were too damp, down on the ground, and too shaded by the huge leaves.

Let the chickens out into the garden while I was out there working. They seemed happy enough, pecking the grass and eating the sorrel leaves. So I left them to it and go on with the job dragging bean plants to the compost heap. Later, when I stopped for a rest, I realised that the chickens had discovered the baby sallad plants I put out last week. Daft cluckers, that was supposed to be their autumn greens. All gone now, and the bed scritched up into a deep pit. A couple of yellow beetroot had also been scratched out of their bed, but merely knocked onto the lawn, out of the way. Obviously beetroot is not as tasty as tender baby lettuce. I can see I'm going to need a cloche, or a cold frame, if I'm going to be able to grown any greens for these silly cluckers to eat later in the year.

They seemed to be spending most of their time inside the run, even after the gate was opened. Any strange noise sent them dashing back for shelter. Which is reassuring, because it means they probably aren't quite as daft as I thought.
I decided it would be a good idea to go and shut them in, while they wanted to be in the run. Rather than try and herd them in later on, perhaps after the wind and rain have died down and they are feeling a bit more frisky. When they saw me coming they came running out happily across the lawn, so that clever idea didn't work.
There's plenty to do in the garden. The gale had blown the sweat pea obelix over, it would have landed on, and crushed, the asters and heliotropes too, except that there was a bow shaped support there that caught it a couple of feet above the ground. Note to self, do not use invisible nylon fishing wire to attach sweat peas to obelix next year, being invisible doesn't make it easier to untangle when the time comes to compost the sweat peas!
The hens followed me about for a bit, enjoyed excavating an antnest under the gravel path, and then went back to their run. Seemed like a good time for me to close the gate, and leave them to it. Seems they actually like being in there, I shall try and remember that next time I think they're pleading to be let out.
Here's a rather splendid shot of Agda contemplating the flowering tobacco
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/agda2sept06.jpg
and here's a not so good one of Elin and Mary with the leaning shed of Pisa on old George's garden in the background.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/Mary.Elin2sept06.jpg

There's a wet gale blowing up the Swansea valley, lashing rain, gusting winds. I went out to give the chickens their second meal of the day, and felt so sorry for them. Stuck inside their little prison, with only wet straw to stand on, and nothing interesting to do. So I let them out. Hoping that the wild winds would discourage them from trying to escape by flying over the garden walls, and that they'd not get into any trouble, or cause any irreparable damage to the garden.

Of course it is too wet and windy for me to stay and keep them company, but they seem to enjoy this weather a lot better than they did the hot sunshine we had earlier. So I've come upstairs to the computer, where I can keep an eye on them out the window.

They have discovered the source of those sorrel leaves they enjoy so much. 3 happy wet pullets, standing in a row, performing topiary on an unruly bed of buckler leaved sorrel. Nope, not any more, a roll of thunder was heard, and they dashed back into the safety of their run. A few minutes later, Mary, the bravest and most advanced in the comb and wattles department has gone back to harvesting sorrel, the other two are playing it safe, waiting to see if the thing that made that rumbling noise is going to come and get whoever was pecking the leaves. Nope, seems safe enough, they're all out there again pecking and scoffing.

I'm just worried about what will happen if the storm dies down, and they get confident and start wanting to explore further from home. Perhaps I should build a movable run. I've got some blue netting for keeping birds off fruit bushes, perhaps it could be stapled to rods and used as chicken confinement?

Let them out again yesterday evening, and took the camera since I didn't have to spend the time mucking out. *Be warned*, the following avi. files are for the seriously chicken-deficient and bandwidth-endowed only.

Here they are doing that chickeny happy dance.
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/dance.avi

This is them trying to convince me that if I let them out in the morning they'd save me the trouble of ever having to mow the lawn again.
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/lawnmowers.avi

Agda discoveres the sunbed.
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/sunbed.avi

It is starting to get dark, usually these chickens would be on their perch by now. As you can hear from my voice, my hands are getting cold and I'm already trying to persuade them that going to roost would be a very good idea.
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/stayingup.avi

Why do they do this? Yesterday it was only Mary who came and gave me a good clucking too. Are they asking for an evening snack? Why did Mary jump up and roost on my hands last night after coming and "talking" to me like this? And why did Elin jump up into the hood of my rain jacket after her performance here? Do they think I look like a safe and comfortable roost? Or a mother hen?
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/suppertime.avi

Finally, when it is almost too dark to see them go, Agda and Elin climb the gangplank. Mary does an extra trip round the outside of the run, just to show who is boss.
http://lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/bedtime.avi

I'm amazed at how easy it is to scramble out of bed at 6.30am and stumble off down the garden to let them out. Especially now that I've put the loud alarm clock on the other side of the bedroom, where it can't be turned off without my waking up. I'm not at my best at that time of day, but always find myself leaning on the run, watching their enjoyment of the new day, and search for tasty bits in the clipped straw.

They got to go for their first excursion into the garden yesterday evening. I waited until 8pm, knowing they like to be on the perch by quarter to nine, so that would give me plenty of time to clean out the coop and run, but would be so close to bedtime that they wouldn't be tempted to stray very far.

They couldn't believe their luck. At first they stayed inside the run, stretching their beaks out to peck the fresh grass that had become available now that the netting door was open. After a while they ventured cautiously out, ready to scuttle back inside if any danger appeared. Then they started to wander down the lawn, and did some wing flapping dances which seemed to be a combination of threat, showing off, and delight at being able to fly. Elin found a big juicy slug, and strutted off with it proudly, down the gravel path. Mary realised she had something and came flapping and squawking after. I missed the next bit, because my view was blocked by broccoli plants, but Elin came fluttering away, sounding cross, and then Mary came hopping out sometime later. For the rest of the evening Mary kept bending her head to the ground, and wiping her beak back and forth on the grass, soil or gravel, so I presume she wasn't all that delighted by the disgustingly sticky slime that a frightened or wounded slug releases.

Meanwhile I was cleaning out the coop, raking out the run, and spreading new bedding. The girls were still mainly concentrating on the grass, but beaks were being stretched into cultivated beds, and holes were being nipped into the leaves of various flowers and vegetables. I was jolly glad that it wasn't earlier in the day, because I knew it was only a question of time before they'd return to the safety of their perch, and I could get them locked up again without having to chase them. So I settled down on a garden chair and watched them as they clucked and fussed. They really wanted to stay out, but they also really wanted to be safely snuggled down on that perch. They did stay up for at least quarter of an hour past their normal bedtime, and Agda and Elin walked up the gangplank several times, and then came down again. Mary kept coming to me and clucking. She was obviously trying to tell me something that I was too thick to understand. I suspect it may have had something to do with a sprinkling of maize. In the end, when the other two had already gone up and settled on the perch, Mary went to the gangplank, walked half way up, turned around, came clucking back to me, and flew up to land on my hands. From the look in her eye she was considering going for a perch on top of my head, which I did not wish to encourage. So I carried her back to the run, and shut the door behind her. She gave me a look, and a disappointed cluck, and then strolled off up the wooden hill to bed.

The nesting box had been closed off with a sheet of plywood, because I didn't want them to get into the habit of sleeping in there. I opened it up, covered the bottom with shavings and put shredded newspaper on top as nesting material. Today they seem to be going up and down the gangplank to the coop several times, when normally they would stay outside from dawn to dusk. Perhaps they are going up to explore the new area?

Ah well, it is time to go out and dead head a few more dahlias. I string them into bunches that can be hung from the inside of the run, allowing the ladies to pluck all the coloured petals, and eat them without the usual condiment of droppings.

Thanks to a brilliant idea from Geraldine this blog will now be devoted to the fascinating life of three pullets, Agda, Elin and Mary. These refined young ladies were delivered on Sunday, and I am their maid servant and greatest admirer.

Here is a picture of them walking the plank for the very first time.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/firstmorning.jpg
And here is a picture from this afternoon. As you can see the grass is a lot shorter, and they don't mind what they tread in.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/dirtycluckers.jpg

Not long after that the shavings and hemp straw I ordered were delivered too, and I was able to remove the stinky wet newspapers and replace them with a nice scratchable layer of shavings and hemp. Having done that I decided to get the chicken catching net out of the shed, because it occurred to me last night that if the silly cluckers escape I might not have time to find the keys to the shed.

Good thing I did too, because the net had got itself caught up in chains. (Hanging baskets, not BDSM dungeon-type shed). After carefully disengaging it I left it next to the coop, after all, the shaft is aluminium and the net is nylon, it's not going to suffer much in damp weather.

Shortly afterwards I was amused to see that all three chickens were once again pushing and shoving to get the best spot in the little dust bath they have scritched up under the gangplank. They were making cute little clucking noises and being adorable. Rain clouds were blowing in up the Tawe valley, and I began to wonder if the hens thought they were cows and were lying down in anticipation of a shower.

Here's a picture of Agda and Elin, Agda is blissfully digging into the grass.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/bliss.jpg

Then paradise was disturbed by Mary, the hen I named after myself, sneaking up and pecking at one of her room mates. That's Mary on the left, caught in the act in the following picture
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/featerpeck.jpg

Hens don't listen when you tell them off. It's very annoying. I kept an eye on Mary and she kept coming back and pecking feathers out of whoever was lying in the dustbath. So in the end I lifted one of the panels in the top of the run, to remonstrate with her. Whereupon she flapped up, out of the run and into the garden.

What a smug looking little pullet she was too. Lurking amongst the broccoli, lurking and smirking and expecting the fun of a chase. Snigger. I'm soooo glad I invested in that long handled net, and even gladder that it was right next to me, rather than locked in the shed and entwined with a hanging basket. Seconds later a very cross pullet was being deposited into the coop, the pophole door was closed, and she was shut in alone. I'll go and let her out in a bit, hoping the disturbance will distract her from her evil feather plucking ways.

At least until the plastic anti-plucking beak bit arrives. I came straight in and ordered a packet. Scold's bridles for hens. Chicken bondage. Oh dear, is this going to be one of those pervy naked chick blogs?

Here's another avi clip of them doing something or other. I can't remember what, and I can't watch the clip myself because this dratted computer is limping along with one foot in the grave.
http://www.lesbiangardens.net/henhouse/101_0107.AVI