Carnage in the garden and 'Bleurg' in the head
At 3 am on Thursday morning I was woken by squawking in the garden. Hurriedly I pulled on my dressing gown and slippers, grabbed a torch and rushed out. The pop hole to the chicken shed had been pushed back. Little red hen was sitting on the perch, big white hen was lying on the floor. A quick recce of the chicken pen found Hugo, our belligerent, feisty cockerel lying against the fence, gasping, likewise little Maran hen. Little white hen was nowhere to be seen. [we found her jacket in the orchard on Saturday]
I checked the other hens and switched on the electric fence.
Next morning little Maran was dead.
The two are now in a secure shed and Hugo is gradually recovering.
I didn't get back to sleep that morning and the next night didn't sleep well. By Friday night I am absolutely hanging, but again I slept fitfully, dozing for an hour, waking, dozing again. By Saturday morning it's obvious that I have caught my line manager's summer cold. I hate summer cold's, I can't even stay under the duvet, it's too hot.
So I'm hand feeding Hugo and my head is full of snotty grot. It can only get better.