Last week we “changed” the chickens. Our rather fat and confident old hens were boxed up and taken back to the shop they came from and five chic young chicks arrived in their place. The old, or as I prefer to say the “more mature” hens, had become birds of a certain age and their productivity levels had fallen. In fact none of them had laid an egg for several months, despite a return to warmer weather here. I realise the vegetarians won’t like this but it was time for the Poule to arrive au Pot.
The problem with the situation is that the new ladies have proved to be interminably boring. There’s no raucous greeting as you approach the hen house, they don’t brush flirtatiously against your legs in the hope of another scrap, and gone are the knowing, head on one side, glances as they try and attract your attention from the weeding…. They just hover in a nervous teenaged group, whispering to one another. No confidence, no conversation, no fun at all.
I’m wondering if there’s a message here for the middle aged sisterhood?