CSI chicken

It is with a heavy heart that I belatedly announce Salt and Pepa & Spinderella are no more. Some of you may know already, but for those of you who don't know they're up in the great chicken coop in the sky. A fox, probably on crack, managed to get in and he killed them all, taking Pepa with him. Friday 21st January was a cold, morbid day, let me tell you. I said it was, 'like a scene from Taggart'. As usual my brain wasn't very good at dealing with a catastrophe.

However, it wasn't all doom and gloom as we had our very own crime scene investigator, detective Frank Smethwick (Eric), King's Heath only feline forensic officer. He was prowling the scene, sniffing for trace evidence, taking dna swabs and swinging a mean right hook at me when I went to stroke him. You just can't interrupt him when he's doing his profiling. His testosterone is in the ascendant. Seriously though, it was very sad. We hadn't had them very long at all, but a G Unit that works together stays together, so there was not

hing left to do but get on with work.

It was a morning and afternoon of endings and beginnings. An eleven year old cactus had also perished, which seemed to reinforce that point. However with a bit of JLS on the old dog and bone (damn good acoustics in the dome let me tell you), we were soon clearing up and moving on. To the musical majesty of Beat Again, One Shot, The Club is Alive we laboured. Parsley tidied up the feathers and the bodies of our feathered friends. I was digging up the mound of soil which is behind the dome, filling up cement and compost bags - sixteen of them! My pythons

were singing like Tom Jones by the end. Hernia schmernia! To get me in the mood I stole the phone and played some drum and bass. Cakea-giga-tonne was appalled : 'You're as bad as those rats on the back of the 50!' I was, I am still prone to flipping out the blackberry wannabe and splashing on some grime. But only in the garden.

Alan, Parsley's dad, was constructing a wicked chicken run that was going to be placed on the raised bed. It was all industry. After lunch, served on a silver plate by Cakeatonne, I moved the bags to the bottom of the drive. Three at a time - they were some big mothers. It doesn't end there as there's many more to move in the not too distant future. I will get that Greek god physique. And there will be more chickens. Read on.

The Dome is Alive With the Sound of Chickens!

If you want something doing, give it to a busy person. Ok here's the checklist. Sir Cakeatonne and Parsley now have a baby, two cats, a solardome, an allotment and THREE CHICKENS. All you can say in such a situation is 'It's wicked.' That's brought a few chuckles on when we've been talking about the workload. It does seem comical. Are we ahead of the season by putting in all this time or are we merely grabbing on for dear life? Either way I'm saying yes instead of no to the tasks at hand, even if I lack the initiative Cakeatonne!

The excitement surrounding the arrival of the chucks has been palpable the last week or so. Parsley showed me the coop she'd bought (an Eglu classic!), which was housed in the solardome. A day later and the chucks were in there rolling about and pecking like they'd never left home.

Parsley and I had been on the allotment when we got the bugle call off Cakeatonne. We sped back to find his mount unmanned with bags of feed lying about. I thought they'd flown off and escaped. But no. We walked up to the dome and there was a big cardboard box with some eyeholes/handles. I could hear some furtive scratching from inside and some quiet clucking. I knelt down and had a look in. Had to suppress a wild laugh as I saw a huge startled orange eye looking back at me. 'There has to be some kind of bewildered wisdom in that chicken brain of yours,' I thought. We were all very trepid as I peeled off the tape and opened up the top of the box. Salt-n-Pepa and Spinderella! (We were going to call them TLC, after T-Boz, Lefteye and Chilli). There they were in their bed of shredded paper. 'There's no time like the present,' I said, and plunged my hands in to pick up the first chuck. She was a lot bigger than I thought but at the same time a lot lighter. It was like holding a bag of helium that had feathers and a beak. Placed her in the coop and off she went pecking away like nothing had happened. Then Cakeatonne grabbed Spinderella as I grabbed Pepa and we stood there grinning like idiots as Parsley took a photo. In the coop they went as we launched all types of compliments at them, 'Ooh look at those feathers, aren't they lovely,' or 'You may not be JLS but you're fucking wicked,' along with mixed seeds (a treat). Later they had marmite on toast and apples. Made me wanna be a chicken.

Great animals, these. We just stood there in a kind of trance, watching them do their thing. Poor winks was terrified of them, staring at them from the safety of the dome exterior. Eric just cast them smouldering glances from the far windowsill, looking every inch a Mr Rochester or Frank Zappa. Haha, he really was emanating some scorn. Or were you just jealous, Smethwick?

They've already done a good job of tilling the soil, getting rid of weeds and eating seeds from our hands. The sensation of a warm chicken tongue on your palm is hilarious. And what good chicken would not lay an egg?! I had my first yesterday and it tasted awesome.

Happy G unit thymes (sic).