randomrabbit's Diaryland Diary
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He was a miserable shitwringing turd
I remember the days when I used to go out and get drunk of a Saturday night, but now they tend to consist of Mark coming up with his big saucepan to make a curry. We do still drink though, so by the time you�re at the curry fancying stage of drunkenness, handily there�s one ready. And usually hot enough to melt your face, unless I�ve managed to hide the chilli well enough from Mark. I mostly cooked this time though, which seemed to distress Mark no end, especially when I strayed from his precious recipe and added� a potato. I might have shat in it the fuss he made. Anyone would think it was the last whispered words by some knackered old Indian on her deathbed the way he�s so possessive, but he got the recipe off his mate who probably got it off a jar of Patak�s. Still it�s better than any I�ve tried before and uses a whole pound of butter so there's a sort of running across a busy road buzz to eating it.
While I cooked I had Mark touch up my rear (ho ho) among other words on my pub sign, which my mum asked if I�d be so kind as to take up to mine. What she actually said was: �If you don�t move that sign from my pissing garden I�m going to chop it in to pieces.�
Hindsight and that, they�re probably not the most practical pieces of memorabilia I could have bought. The other one I found a home for screwed to the new chook run what I built, but I think two on there would make it look silly.
Good, eh? Well I impressed myself anyway.
(Ungratefully) one of the chooks - Faberg� - alas has gone to the big hen house in the sky. Or at least the wheelie bin at the end of the passage. It was terribly unceremonious for the old girl, but there isn�t really much else one can do with a dead chicken. I was rather fond of her though. Stupid things that they are they see you as a boy chicken so they squat down and lift their bums in the air in anticipation of a good mating whenever you get close, so handily, much like with a lady, this then makes it easy to give them a quick health check and a dusting in red mite powder. Faberge bless her was having none of that business, so I had to chase the bugger round the garden with my tomato sauce bottle trying to poot the powder on to her from a distance.
Esmeralda has gone broody again too, but this time seems much more determined to stick at it. She just sits there like a lemon all day on the eggs the other 2 girls lay, trying to hatch them. I�ve tried cooling down her underside by sitting her on ice packs (it's the cure I promise) which did the trick last time, and we�ve had a bit of a heart to heart (Look I�m sorry but you�re just not going to have any babies), but it looks like it�ll have to be a few days in the broody cage i.e. sitting her in a wire pet carrier on bricks (the carrier not the chicken) until the constant draught up her back end in theory makes her come to her senses. It all sounds rather unpleasant but necessary as they don�t eat properly when they�re like that, or lay for that matter. Given all the dead, pecky, broody, semi-bald chickens at the moment, It's still all jolly good fun.
4:58 p.m. - 2009-06-09
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