You know that feeling in any sport we’ve ever been privy to, where the whistle/finish line/end is in sight?
That rush of urgency, boost of energy, an inexplicable surge of collective exhilarating dig-down-deepness? It doesn’t matter whether you’re sitting alongside The Bean Counter at Anfield (23 December 2000, Liverpool 4 v Arsenal 0, The Bean Counter was still voiceless on Christmas Day) or shifting from foot to frozen foot down at Soccer Park on a frosty Saturday; you even feel it sprawled on the sofa in front of the roaring woodburner watching a bunch of guys biking through the summery French countryside. Well, this week, for the first time ever, we felt it right here in our own backyard and there wasn’t a referee, competitor, commentator or lycra-clad individual (thankfully) in sight.
This week, for the first time ever, we FELT Spring.
Suddenly, in the chicken coop, all the ladies are strutting about with a definite sense of purpose as if they’ve just woken up after a long and very satisfying slumber, or had a couple of double shot espressos. Well, all except Kiki, the silky, who is hell bent on incubating some eggs but is not that particular about whose eggs they are. Initially we tried to follow all those learned folk’s instructions on how to extract the eggs from under her.
Take it from us: she may be little, but she can strike like a cobra! After witnessing her taking a hunk out of the timidly wielded NBC (nesting box cleaner – okay, it’s an old spatula but it does the job admirably) we retreated, defeated, only to observe her taking a five minute intermission around eleven am each day to visit the Grandpa Feeder and stretch her little chickeny legs. No, we don’t don camouflage gear and facepaint to undertake these nesting box raids (which she greets with a slightly befuddled “now, where did I leave them?” air on her return), but one of us was heard to be humming the theme to The Professionals.