Stones Slaughter - Saturday

As many who were unable to get hold of a ticket for Glastonbury did, I watched the Rolling Stones semi-live on television on Saturday evening. Filter lenses and light of the night did their best to mask the signs of decades of living it up; and whilst Jagger can still jiggle like a teen, others seemed ready-embalmed and held in situ by virtue of aching limbs. They were great, they always are, can still hold a crowd; and how many of the current 'yoof' bands will be able to say that in sixty years time?

But they held my attention for too long. Any thoughts of shutting up my happy hens for the night faded as the Stones sauntered on and the wine level in my glass dropped.

We've lost two hens recently; one through ill health, the other drowned having tried breast-stroke in the tub of water left out for livestock. Of the remaining six, we favoured Ginger, a feisty bantam belonging to our eldest whose namesake was the star of the Wallace and Gromit studio's The Chicken Run. Like the Chicken Run's Ginger, ours was hell-bent on escape at first, her diminuitive size enabling her to slip through fences whilst others watched enviously, (you try pointing out to chickens that they have plenty of space, trees to provide shade, long grass to forage in, dust baths, nesting boxes, food and water in plentiful supply - if there's a way out, they'll take it!) Over the years she showed her true colours as the original Tiger Mother; a fierce guardian of chicks who soon grew bigger than she - only Ginger was capable of seeing off the Sisters of Doom, Smokey and Feathers, who sought to eat any chicks that hatched in their kingdom, other mothers were bullied out of the way, sacrificing their little ones in the process - it's a dog-eat-dog world in the hen coop.

Eldest Son was dispatched to feed the fowl on Sunday morning and returned quietly to tell his mother that there would be no egg collecting that day. Foxy Loxy had visited in the night and in some sort of peverse form of justice, carried off Smokey and Feathers - evidence of their struggle found in piles of white and grey feathers in the field. Another hen had wounds to her neck and our three beloved bantams had all died of fright, Ginger in the nesting box of which she was so fond.  We miss the clucking every time we walk into the garden, and Ginger's flight up to the food bin to get her bantam-sized share before the others.

Were the Stones good on Saturday? Yes - but were they worth my flock of fowl - I think not.

We shall be interviewing replacement applicants for the coop in coming weeks; only hens with  Ginger's attributes need apply!