The chicken whisperer

So I am contemplating hiring P out as a chicken whisperer, this task will not include naming chickens for his clients.  Yes they’re here.

Those of you on FB will know recognise Jeff and Vera, except that they are now Bleep and Booster. Jeff was P's  momentary flirtation with one the main characters  (the dead one) in Randall and Hopkirk Deceased (forgive him he was only 9 when the first one was released and we were still bedazzled by colour TV).  So I had to come up with a suitable girl’s name which couldn’t be Jeanie (the heroine) because my mother’s name is Jean and we have had this discussion about not having relatives names in case one day one of them (the chickens) has to have it’s neck rung. Lamely I arrived at Vera since the only Jeff I knew with a female partner, Janet, and that should be with John except that is one of my brother's name and we are back to neck wringing and and and and …However the chemistry was lacking  every time we came to shout it I couldn’t remember them at all and P kept coming out with every name but Jeff.  So they got the last collective Proper nouns as above and we seem to have coped. There was never meant to be a male as those of you gripped and immersed in the previous story will remember P suffers from EDES or to give it it’s clinical name embryonic dippy egg syndrome.

Their arrival has not been without difficulty.. Last time I said we were having terrible trouble sourcing any chickens due to the “maladie desastre” which gave the chickens camel humps then they died. Well I had wondered about the lost in translation possibility and it turns out that SW France has the worst outbreak of chicken flu for, I think it is about 15 years. P read this on the internet whilst I was in the UK, one day after one of his Sharman’s away let’s go crazy moments which manifested itself as ordering chickens on line which come in the post from Normandy. Hell he could have been really mad and ordered Bennett

So like expectant parents we eagerly awaited our new charges who came in a pyramid shaped box with the top cut off, that’s the box not the chickens. 

3 days in an ancient Egyptian burial tomb shaped box in the dark creates a bond that can never be severed and they have never been apart since, in fact, sitting outside the pound (do I have a subliminal desire for a dog?)  in a get to know your chickens session I spilled me tea when Booster jumped Bleep in the long grass.  There have been moments when we thought that we should have called them Derby and Joan. They keep very regular hours and if we turn up a little late, though far from even vaguely dusk, they are already tucked up in the corner of the chicken house with the air of “what time do you call this”.

The avian flu thing has meant we have had to register our two birds at the Mairie for statistical purposes, we are the downward bulge in the bell curve. We turned up at the same time as Madame Supreveille, at least that’s what we think her name is. She has the farm next to us and was regaling us about one branch of her family who have had to lay off 10 workers who are employed to look after their ducks and prepare foie gras. Whilst not a great fan of the stuff and the farming techniques surrounding its production the impact on families and their livelihoods is very sad. 60% of the foie gras is exported to China and they have cancelled all exports. So they reel like the UK beef industry did when the world reacted to Mad Cows disease.  Mme Supreveille was in the doldrums contemplating what to do with her ducks, which are not numerous and not ill. 

She then brightened a little at the thought of casserole, pot au feu etc. until

we entered the Mairie when we began to wonder if Monsieur le Maire  was in tune with his electorate:

“Ah oui,  enregistrer les canards” accompanied by a laugh followed by a machine gun strafing sound and action followed by a

“Aha …les pigeons,  BOOM BOOM” accompanied by a shot gun take upward aim and shoot action .

Followed by an imaginary “Thwack, Thwack”, as Madame Supreveille knocks him to the ground with her imaginary handbag and stamped his official stamp "ou le soleil ne brille pas"

Bleep and Booster are not the only new arrivals. We have the constant baby blue tit “meep meep” in the first bird box that P put up. I have become expert on the taking of photographs of manic blue tit parent bottoms. Comme ca! (Said with upward inflection). 

 And equally expert in the taking of blurred flights to collect the take out. Comme ca! (mumbled with downward inflexion).

Then there is the Confederation of Swallows (SW France branch) annual reunion which takes place in our barn on the drying rack above the freezer and the washing machine which makes perfect surfaces to compare target practice. It is louder than a Women's Institute Handbag Tony Blair session. 

And hot off the press P has been so enamoured by the chickens that, he thought I would like another two so we have Pekin Bleu arriving soon. 

I am a little worried about the amount of conversation he is having with them when it leads to comments like:

"Damn I forgot the blue seed for the bird tits".