Keep Calm And Do Nothing

 Long term readers of Going Gently may well remember " The Ghost Hens" .
I found myself thinking about them this morning, as bleary eyed! I sipped my coffee amid the maelstrom of political upheavals in the capital and the up and down stress of a husband coping with a particularly stressful week at work

Now, for those that don't know, the Ghost Hens were five genetically fucked up broiler hens that arrived at the Ukrainian Village as brainwashed , psychologically damaged little pullets. Designed to eat themselves fat in a matter of weeks, these sad little hens had been brought up in a massive barn of a building under artificial lights with thousands of other little fuck ups .
They had never seen the sun, never ate a blade of grass and had never had the room to scratch their own arse without getting battered by another google eyed clone.

Faced with their very own warm hen house and a miniature run, these sad little characters continued to eat themselves fat in silent desperation, but they did eventually react to their brave new world, and calmly and very slowly they started to turn their faces into the sun to live a little.
Surrounded by animal drama and chaos, The Ghost Hens always looked unflappable but their inactivity was just a useful way of coping. They were too big and too comical to run around in silly chicken circles.
They just couldn't do it.

This week as the Prof hurried from one mindset and thought and plan to another , I took a leaf out  of the Ghost Hen's book and provided an anchor of calm.
I quietly made lamb kofkas from scratch, polished shoes without moaning and listened to tales of academic intrigue with an understanding stance.
There is something useful in not reacting, especially when your other half is pushed to the limit.

Anyhow,
I remember taking the above photo very well.
It was approaching dusk on a summer's evening and the rest of the field was in constant motion.
The other hens were mooching homewards to roost, the geese were bickering over a patch of grass like they do and the hysterical runner ducks were being , well, just hysterical.
Only the Ghost hens remained still. Sitting in the evening sun until their white plumage tinged pink..........
with their fat bottoms planted into the grass like old ladies arses on comfy armchairs.

Their faces were held very high as they enjoyed the last bit of sunshine of the day.