Going Gently

An Aesop's Fable

A scattering of white feathers mark the end of Odin.

His hormones had blinded his peanut sized brain

And a vixen had taken advantage of his sex filled thoughts.

It's a fable worthy of Aesop

Or even the old Testament

" sex bringeth damnation"

Or something like that.

My girls have not been left unscathed by the roving predator

One Bluebell was taken from the centre of the field yesterday morning.

She was a good layer too.

The vixen will have cubs and May and June are always dangerous times for free range poultry owners.

This morning I have blocked the holes in the field fencing and have hung the portable radio in the hawthorn. Radio 5 live will now be trilling out over the fields

Radio 4 tells to frighten off foxes more , but the reception is bad today.

Little Dramas......The Arrival Of Odin

Centre background..squint carefully and you will see him

Over the last couple of days and from a small opening in the nettle cover over by the stream, a stranger has been silently watching the field. I was not the only one that noticed him. The two resident cockerels Moriarty and Ginger Harry have been slapping their wings together a little more regularly than usual. It's a general threat display in hens.
I have nicknamed the raider Odin, for he is a large White cockerel with an obvious eye for the ladies.
Odin lives at the livery stables across the fields. he obviously doesn't have enough bitches in his hen house to satisfy his lustful nature, for everyday he creeps through the fence, over he stream and up the bank so that he can get his " peeping tom jollies" off, on my collection of pin up hens.
Now from time to time, his lust will get the better of him and with lightening speed he will make a run for the nearest hen, bang her within an inch of her life before legging it back to his perimeter line foxhole.
Moriarty ( who is an evil bastard) and Ginger Harry have yet to catch the Viking raider as yet, but they are clearly biding their time.
I feel bloodshed will be the order of the day very soon.
Hormones have a great deal to answer for

Bodnant & Bodysgallen

Birthday boy has been treated all day

I now have mucho pennies in the " good partner" bank

We visited Bodnant Gardens and walked amid the bluebells

And Azaleas

Afternoon tea at Bodysgallen Hall

Was lovely

I enjoyed myself pretending I was Dr Burton,

( I booked it in chris' name)

Picked Last For Games

This may surprise many of you, but it was not always the fine figure of a man that stands before you now. oh no.
In school, I was clumsy, uncoordinated and unsporty.
I was average in biology, Welsh, history and at art
Poor at woodwork
And abysmal at physics.
I liked English.
But like I said,
I was shite at all sports.
Suffice to say, I was always left standing against the wall when teams were picked for games.
I was never the very last to be picked , but more often than not, only "hunchback Alan " and "obese Dicko" were waiting to be chosen after a team leader had reluctantly picked me.

This ritual of " being picked for games" was humiliating and always difficult for a shy eleven year old to cope with . I doubt that it would be allowed now.
Did the experience follow me into adult life?
Well, I think it did......just a little.........
I have never loved team activities since
I always shy away from any situation that could possibly embarrass me in any way

And do you know what....? I cannot abide soddin football.

Shopping

" Oh God.........not another salesperson"

It's Chris' birthday tomorrow and I haven't bought his birthday gift as yet. Tomorrow I am taking him to Bodysgallen Hall ( below) for a posh afternoon tea, but this afternoon I will have to run the gauntlet of the " nice " shops in Chester to see if I can find something appropriate for a curly moustached academic with a penchant for the finer things in life

For many an afternoon troll in designer bespoke shops would be a delight.
I find the prospect nothing less than excruciating .
This morning I wanted to plant out the rest of my potatoes. (The ground is just warm enough for someone to rest a bare arse in the soil) but I will have to forgo this in order to cobble together an outfit that doesn't quite make me look like the gardener out of Downton Abbey . I don't want the salesperson's of Chester looking at me like the shop owner did to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman
Wish me luck!

Never Again

This morning I rang Eirlys to thank her for looking after the dogs . Last night I left a gift for her and her hubby by the gate to her farm as I know they are early to bed people. After my phone call and on reflection, I think I should have left her a new mop, bucket and industrial sized bottle of disinfectant.
Hey ho.
She let the dogs have the run of the house for the briefest time
In that short moment, all four had opened their bowels, merrily jumped in it and galloped around the farmhouse with gay abandon.
Oh the shame
Eirlys , as usual was incredibly upbeat about it all
" my duvet needed a good clean anyway" she chirped this morning " and it was a good drying day yesterday!"
" did they damage anything else?" I asked weakly
" only one of my bras" Eirlys said cryptically
I was too ashamed to ask for more details.
Most of the day the dogs had been removed to a nice warm stable, and were as happy as Larry in it, sniffing horsey smells and sleeping in the hay.
Your children always let you down at the wrong times, do they not?

A Big Blue Cock

Well, it was lovely to see my father in law ( to be) in London today. He was cheerful and avuncular as always, but external factors made the rest of the visit to a rather hot and over crowded capital rather less than totally enjoyable.
First was the tube strike.
This necessitated several forced marches on packed over heated streets and one 10£ aborted taxi ride of 100 yards down a gridlocked Strand.
Second was a piss poor meal grabbed at a pub not far from Charring Cross ( our original lunch booking was at a rather nifty gastro pub in Bloomsbury- owing to the aforementioned tube strike we had to change our plans)
And Third was a disappointingly shite comic version of The Thirty Nine Steps in Piccadilly.
Now some of the production was mildly amusing and inventive, but I had already lost the will to live as soon as a hundred schoolgirls marched into the stalls in front of us, each one clutching a bag of crisps.
I am typing this on the train home. I am sweaty, tired, worried that Eirlys' front room has been decimated by three terriers and a hormonal bulldog and am irritated that I have spent far too much in Marks and Spencer's food hall.
Having said all this, it was lovely to see my father in law....and I am grateful ( honest I am......I'm a good girl I am!) for the chance to have a day out.
The highlight of the trip?
Apart from a few hours with my fiancée and FIL doing something different.
It was the fucking big blue cockerel in Trafalgar Square
Cracking

Trelawnyd in Bloom

18 degrees and it feels like summer.

I have been staying close to home most of the day as I have been waiting for my nephew to collect and return the Berlingo. It's having it's pre MOT resurrection

The whole village seems to have burst into life...literally........

With spring flowers and gardening activity going on everywhere.
Apart from the vicar, who seemed to be having a bad day ( I made very sure I didn't officially ask him to open the flower Show) , everyone I met seemed to be bright in mood.
Peter and Val waved energetically at me through their garden sprinkler when I took the dogs for a walk and as I walked down high Street " Gay " Gordon bellowed
" HELLO FLOWER" cheerfully just making himself heard above the din of the council workers who were cutting the village green grass
I took these snaps as I ambled