I am not a hen expert by a long shot; I guess I am learning on the job. However I can safely say that Midas and Gertie are officially in love. Gone are the days that Midas waited at the gate corner, camouflaged by bushes awaiting his next hen victim to meander past at which point he would throw himself upon them with rampant glee hanging onto their neck feathers whilst flapping his wings for extra penetrative centrifugal force. When the dastardly deed was done, he would slide off with a happy sigh, twiddle his imaginary ‘bad boy’ moustache and take himself off for a quiet smoke round the back of the henhouse.
The aforementioned victim, after looking initially startled would have given the whole procedure a resigned sigh, and stood up ruffling feathers back to a semblance of normality and carried on with whatever important task that been rudely interrupted doing.
As Midas brief affair with Gillian (as her butler, handbag carrier and general servant) had deteriorated he seemed he was going to be a confirmed bachelor for the rest of his life. However over the past few weeks he has become totally smitten with Gertie. A fabulous choice since she is my favorite hen if I was pressed to make a choice. He has good taste it now seems.
They wander around together side by side but spend most of their days canoodling in a dust bath side. If you approach too quickly Midas rises to the challenge, steps up to the mark puffing up his chest to you and making derogatory noises in your direction. Gertie sits there looking a trifle smug as she is entitled to. For the most part of her life here, being the smallest of all the hens, she was always low down in the pecking order. It is as though, the big Head Boy at school, the one all the girls wanted to date (drooling his name as they write his name in love hearts on their pencil cases) had chosen the shyest most retiring wall flower possible for his love. And very satisfying it is too.
That Monday Morning Feeling…
There is something hanging in the air that quiet before a storm. It is a ‘nothing’ day. Ambient temperature, dull low sky, no wind as such and a quietness that sits on you like a damp cloth. I woke up in a cloud of feathers, with Billy looking at me with hooded raised eyebrows and a sorrowful expression. Bubbles the new puppy however was full of the joy that only bursting open a large soft pillow can apparently bring. The corner of the pillow still tucked inside her teeth, and with a hat of white goose feathers gently resting in between her ears, Bubbles had greeted the day the way it was meant to carry on.
The children refused to reform to my morning conformity, running outside in white socks, each wanting a different breakfast to normal, Adam actually getting ready without me nagging him. I disappear down to ride Ella as early as I can make a break for it, leaving husband on his morning frantic quest to find hairbands for the girls.
Lambert and the goats had managed to get into the haylage stable
(actually to be blunt this will have meant that a child left it open last night so at least that was a normal occurrence), and had pulled out various pieces of packaging of which Ella was eying with alarm. Lambert had somehow managed to get Ambers lead rope and headcoller wrapped around her body and was clattering around the yard like a schoolgirl poltergeist and on seeing me, hid under a table.
I actually managed to get on Ella in a vaguely dignified manner. I like to
feel that this is a good start. We head off down the road in a gay fashion, equine buttocks swaying from side to side, tail warming up to its usual propeller like action, darting from side to side with me swearing at her in due course. An advantage of riding such a tall horse is that the view from up there has a whole new dimension, we can look over garden fences and walls, into windows and now I have discovered it is a prime site to be able to see into silver estate cars where a couple are having an early morning sex session in the front seats.
My one and only observation is why on earth would you park on a verge just off a main road? Kirsty and I had once watched (whilst out riding) a naked man carrying a towel run across a field (we can only assume the husband suddenly came home), both of us were rather startled by this since it was a Saturday afternoon in sleepy Suffolk but at least he had the dignity and sense not run down the road and was making some effort not to be caught. This couple did not seem at all fazed by my clattering past and did not even come up for air. The worst part for me was that I knew I was going to have to come back the same way to get home and I was really really not looking forward to the next installment. I decided as I approached the car a while later that a good ‘Working trot’ was clearly the way for forward but my beloved Ella concluded that the simple straightforward approach to getting past this parked car was not her choice and being a Monday morning only true hysteria at the sight of a car parked in a unusual place was the way to deal with this.
And so we waltzed and fox trotted past, stopping oncoming traffic, alerting all others in the vicinity to the blue car gently rocking side to side (with its steamed up windows) and causing a general hoo-ha on the Halesworth road. So if anyone knows who these people might be you please apologize on my behalf by gently suggest that a new and more private venue would be more suitable for such shenanigans?
October 2011
Flight of Fancy
Fly (our addition to the homestead after realizing my mistake with Bubbles) has come into season early. Which is very heartwarming for myself and husband since we cannot wait for her to have puppies but it has provided a rather too early sex education for the girls. Billy is beside himself with youthful vigor, and is thereby spending a considerable amount of time being attached to my ever lengthening arm by way of a lead rope.
‘MUMMY!!!!!!…what is Billy dong to Fly??….OFF, OFF, OFF!’ squeals one girl after the other. After a quick visit to Google for advice (goodness knows what any Big Brother investigation into our computer history would say about us….googling goats genitalia and general hints about dog breeding combined with ‘how to explain one dog throwing himself in happy abandonment on top of another’ would leave us in a very funny light). However the decision was made just to explain the whole sex process in black and white terms to the girls and let them make of it what they will.
I have warned Matilda’s nursery teacher of the impending likelihood of small girl discussing ‘humping and rumping’ (girls new interpretation of the goings on with a small amount of input from their brother) to an increasingly horrified and scarred for life primary school children. Maybe we are doing some parents a favour?
Billy for his part in the matter is highly enthusiastic. Although Bobby was meant to be the first sire to Fly’s puppies, he has quite simply turned tail on her and stalked off to more pressing matters which include sleeping, chasing cats and re-hiding his personal stash of manky bones.
Billy is more than happy to step up to the mark. The first few days of Fly being in season saw husband and myself being very worried at the lack of Billy’s willy making an appearance, there was a lot of jumping and humping going on, but with close inspection from us both there was no actual willy making a show or any genitalia contact what so ever.
Day 11 found us both on our knees giving the goings on an even closer inspection. However coming to a conclusion that maybe some manual help might need to come into play, it lead us both into a heated argument on which of us would actually have to start masturbating my darling dog. Fortunately Billy then wandered past with a very pointed dangling appendage so the argument could be quietly forgotten about, to resume another day. For my part I would like to make it clear that it would be NOT be my choice to fiddle with Billy. He is considered by me to be as close as a relative or best friend, neither of which I would want to desecrate that familial bond by getting involved in any form of sex act.
By day 12 Billy was considered a Master at catching Fly at her most vulnerable though fortunately by now he had managed the deed.
If by chance he had managed to escape from the kitchen Fly was now extremely fed up with him. With a scattering of paw, a flash of sharp teeth and a very impassioned bark her suitor was seen off. So now we sit and wait, her every move noted with the hope that she might be showing signs of pregnancy…..just watch this space folks.
Evie
It’s not often my Mother intervenes with my way of life so when she does it is something I have to take seriously. I had returned home covered in mud, bedraggled and gently whimpering to myself after bringing Ella and Amber back from the field. I had tripped and fell down a rabbit hole (yes I know ha ha) and then been dragged by a very tempestuous Ella with Amber doing a good impression of her on the left hand lead rope. I had ended up letting go of them both and watching them canter round the rest of the field on a victory lap.
I eventually returned to the house to gain sympathy from my Mother – what I got was sound advice that it was about time I stopped putting myself in harm’s way and harm’s way apparently is Ella. I knew it had to happen but it is a heart breaking and gut wrenching notion so I did what any other horse obsessed person would do and that was to drive half way across England with Adam as navigator on the pretext of looking at a horse that would suit us both. Even he knew that this was probably a bit of a lie but it got him out of school for a day and a long haul ride in our beloved horsebox. We (of course) returned home with yet another chestnut mare to add to our collection.
November 2011
Rain. Rain Go Away….
It is raining here in Suffolk. Really raining. Not just a little light drizzle but the full on relentless downpour, drowning the garden and surrounding areas with tepid misery. We all react in different ways. Husband is happily chuckling to himself, counting coins, the festival up the road is water logged hence making the not so happy campers desperate to get back to civilisation and pavements, and calling his taxi company to whisk them to the not so nearest train stations.
I am wet, my hair is pulled back into a scruffy ponytail, and the makeup put on this morning a distant memory. Kirsty and I braved the weather by taking my 2 horses out for a rainy ride. Ella snorting at every puddle, shying sideways at the torrent of water gushing down the drains. Evie eying her with curiosity. They have only known each other a couple of weeks, and though they look remarkably like I have been busy cloning chestnut mares in my spare time (of which I have a lot apparently) their characters so far seem quite different.
Ella dances from side to side, around and about any puddle, ducking and diving under the heavy tree branches, snorting and starting at the slightest movement which she deems a bit odd. Evie steps out beside her, her Irish roots behaving in a far more civilized manner for her jockey.
Back home the other inhabitants fall into the wet weather routine. Lambert and goats are hiding away in the old open stable. Patch, the smaller of the goats has become a bit of a recluse, sort of a Greta Garbo moment; she hurries herself away to the old pig arc and hides away for the hours at a time. On close inspection her eyes are bright; she is eating and drinking well. I phone the vets with my diagnosis that she might be having a bit of a ‘moment’ /or a goat nervous breakdown. The long silence at the end of the phone leaves me with no other conclusion that maybe I should put the phone down and not speak to that particular vet for a while.
Elvis is soaking wet and with no care in the world. He is a grubby as grubby can be having rolled himself gently down the hill for no other reason than to get extra gritty and dirty. One ear is inside out and his mane standing on end, he gallops from one side of the field to the other, slithering and sliding towards a group of disgruntled chickens. They soon disperse. Amber is simply happy just munching the haylage pulled out for her. She is at one with the world in the knowledge that her usual jockeys will have no desire to anything with her in the wet so she has a free day ahead.
Inside the house the kids manage to get on and ‘play nicely’ until about 30 minutes ago when an all-out screaming hissy fitting tantrum throwing roaring with rage argument breaks out. This is soon followed by them all being sent to various rooms to calm down and chill out giving me a small iota of time to write this. As I sit here and type I can thumping footfalls from Adam as he appears to be rearranging his bedroom. The thought that he might be barricading himself in comes to mind, but with the following realisation that this might take a tad more effort than Adam could muster I leave the conclusion open. The older dogs are curled up beside me, ears and noses twitching in a dream filled canine doze. Bubbles trots past, little tail bolt upright as if to address the balance of the roller skate she is carrying in her mouth.
The rain still shows no sign of stopping. The quietness of the house and my children cannot be ignored by me much longer. I need to go and investigate the sudden silence. But now Beyoncé is suddenly belting out of the girls bedroom. With the knowledge that Husband is trying to get a nap in, I better go and sort this next debacle out. Hey ho here we go again….
January 2012
Get Off Her!
Dear God, has Billy really discovered sex. His ardor cannot be dampened by shouting, screaming, bellowing, barking or biting (from the other dogs not me), it’s as though a teenage boy has discovered a tub full of Viagra, his father’s full on international porn collection and a locked bedroom door. I would like to point out that I am not basing this description on any male of this family. Honest.
The upside of this is the kids are now completely au fait with the canine sex act. Conversations carry on carelessly while one child hauls a bedraggled girl dog off in one direction, whilst the other uses full body weight to wrestle Billy to the floor (Thank goodness for WWF).
It goes something like this…Tabitha to Adam ‘You took my last sweet!! Give it back!! Careful Billy’s willy is stuck and Mummy said not to mess with the privates’….’NO I DIDN’T take it, you gave it to me. Anyway I have eaten it. No its NOT…LOOK IDIOT!’ Walking into the room will find you an all in wrestling match fit for YouTube. If I didn’t worry about what social services would say we could be an internet sensation somewhere over night.
The downside is that none of the bitches are in season. So finding the right level of discipline for Billy and his lust is a touchy subject. I don’t want to put him off for life, but husband treats the girl dogs like one of his daughters and is not happy with Billy’s full on hump and rump fest he is trying to engage in. Locking him up doesn’t help (Billy not husband, though sometimes the thought does cross my mind). He either howls for hours (thank goodness for no neighbours) or he leaps and scrabbles out of his prison and is off continuing the carnage in a blink of an eye. Thus Elmer Fudd goes hunting for his figurative gun. Local boys watch out….if husband is this maniacal about the dogs then Lord Have Mercy on any lads with designs on his daughters…..you have been warned!
April 2012
The Lorry
I love my horse-box. It’s that simple. The kids, the ‘Brave Miss Boggis’ and myself at the helm have had many a happy day, adventures, and a smattering of tearful disappointed moments within its creaking chassis.
It came as a job lot with the first horse I acquired here in Suffolk. In retrospect it makes perfect sense now that the lorry, plus an overwhelming amount of perfect accoutrements came with the stunningly handsome quivering piece of flesh of the 17.2 Chestnut gelding aptly nick named ‘Digger’. It was all more than willingly thrust in my direction with a happy smile. They failed to mention a few of his foibles and if they had been even less honest then they would have gone on some sort of criminal relocation scheme or just simply left the country.
It did not matter a tad at first that I was too over whelmed to drive the thing, just because Digger would NOT load. At all. After a few weeks the Brave Miss Boggis and I managed to get his 2 front feet on the bottom of the ramp, while the back half stayed firmly on terra firma.
We stayed in this position for quite a while. Husband bought us a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses from the house; we sat on the ramp with our drinks whilst Digger swayed from side to side but not moving a millimetre in a forward fashion. After a further 2 hours we gave up. The light was going and we at least were tired of this game.
I would like to say that we did eventually cure Digger of this particular trait but we did not. However in the meantime I had summoned the courage to actually drive the lorry around the block by myself. It was in sheer terror that I grabbed the keys from the kitchen, sprinted up to the lorry and shot off down the lane. If I had gone any slower I would have changed my mind.
Over the coming few months my confidence improved, more so by the particularly perfect gift of a fake nose and glasses with mechanical raising eyebrows. This was not especially to draw attention to myself that came with a matter of course. Any man seeing a blonde driving a lorry had the knee jerk reaction of horrified swerving as they tried to get as far away from me as possible. My personal favorite pastime (even to this day) is getting diesel from the local supermarket petrol station. The roof is very low, and the turnings very tight. I still hold my breath as I
swing the lorry in there, but I know (but on lookers do not) that I just fit underneath. I enjoy tremendously the petrified stares I get every time. Always intensified if I wear the glasses and a sombrero.
These days the lorry is held together with will power and love. I swear the interior ceiling and subsequent roof is held up by the kitchen cabinets within. The ceiling is oddly bumpy and bowed and the interior area is stuffed with tack, toys, clothes, old boots, rosettes plus old bits of what nots. The exterior is decorated with sticky back plastic red and silver flowers. A show was cancelled and the Boggis and I holed ourselves up inside, our cold breath dripping on to the window as puffs of smoke as we enjoyed an hour or so ‘Blue Peter’ time before husband and then the kids discovered us and blew our cover.
But, and a big ‘BUT’ it is too. It is mine and I love it. A piece of roof flew off the other day as I bounced down a single track road. I saw it in the rear view mirror. I did not stop. Long may the pleasure last, while the lorry starts (often with a bit of coaxing), it is still collecting interesting new scrapes and scratches. I still drive off with the side door swinging open and lots of friends frantically hollering at me to stop. And, as any sensible horse women would do, I just had to acquire another horse, making sure that this one certainly loaded.
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