Sweet Baby Chickens

Poor Bert has had a tough few days for the dreaded digger man has been here. Digger men are terrible people to have about a place for they need attended from morning to night and they also need massive quantities of stones to fill their drains.This has been a desperate place this last wee while for if it is not Robinson's Quarry lorries roaring into the yard at sparrow's first fart, it is The Silage Boys driving massive plant up the back lane and the minute they have the fields shaved there is Hector the Farmer in straight after them with his slurry spreader totally stinking the place up. Then, if they can find a space to park, we have Pearlie's carers in four times a day. And they say country living is peaceful. It is not. I thought we had the place to ourselves this evening and went outside to shift my baby chickens to their dormitory and of course I was singing them a very silly song that went something like this,

Sweet baby chickens

Have to go to sleep

Sweet little hen babies

Going cheep, cheep, cheep.*

Next thing I spotted Stephen the Farmer lurking in some bushes. I brazened it out and bade him a good evening. If a woman can't sing a silly song in her own yard where can she sing one? To tell the truth I'll be glad to get away from this madhouse and escape to the relative peace and tranquillity of Vancouver.

Four more sleeps and, with a bit of luck, another one on the plane. And, according to my friend Bilrus, I am to keep my eyes peeled for a glimpse of Sasquatch.

Sung to the music from the chorus The Toreador Song, Carmen