Maybe it's because she's a Londoner

So what if I carry 'Hen and the art of chicken maintenance'as my new waiting room read? Doesn't automatically make me one-dimensional, dreary or deluded? Does it?

To another London NHS waiting room today. Eventually my 'Reflections on keeping chickens' was interrupted by the Swedish 'Bone Guy' (you couldn't make it up). Except it's not the Teenager's bone that's broken. It’s a ligament. And (imagine the muppet chef telling you) think rubber band. That’s way more complicated than a broken bone. So the Teenager is sporting a cast, and it looks like she’ll be sporting one for a whole big while. She may need (hurdy guerdy) not one, but two, (guerdy hurdy) operations. So should I be feeling a little guilt that on Sunday we had a choice: casualty or restaurant? The outlaws were staying so the restaurant won and the doctor had to wait. Boy have I paid in waiting time ever since. Yet...every cloud... it legitimately gets her out of GCSE art coursework for a while. Now I don’t have to be so creative with the Monday morning excuses.

To the football ground this evening to watch Gorgeous Boy play. My pleasure at meeting up with my oldest (and only) French-parent-pal dissolved as the Boy hit the pitch. The last thing I need right now is another injured child. Should I ban all Sports so we become fat and injury free together? Luckily some anti-inflams, a bit of ice, elevation and TLC soon had that injury licked.
I’m learning.

It just so happens that last week I bought some ‘super food mix’ containing flaxseeds and other natural organic ‘stuff’. The plan was to secretly mix it in to everything I prepare. My lids will become Superlids, with super fast healing powers. Except, so far, I have forgotten to include it in every meal. I remembered tonight but thought it might look a bit obvious on the supermarket pizza.

I can’t finish today’s blog without some reference to my feathered friends. The geeky gal came today to check out the chooks. Think it’s fair to say that ‘impressed’ is the complete opposite of her response. And still no eggs. We may have been sold a dud with Kebab – her comb doesn’t appear to be growing. No comb equals no eggs. Maybe it’s because she’s a Londoner but my Little-un seems to freak the chickens. Especially Clucky: in her shy and retiring way she tries to hide. In a circular-running-not-managing-to-hide-at-all-type way. Kebab is a bit more feisty and just one look at the little-un starts her squawking in a far from pleasant manner. She tries so hard with her cute little chook chooking and throwing food at them. Yet they see her and run. Like headless chickens. The dog, ever the opportunist, observes all this before diving on the chook food. The chooks flap then cower. The little-un goes in for the kill and tries to catch them. Eventually I feel sorry for them all and distract the little-un with important chores such as drowning the veggy patch.

Ah this is the life.