Monday, July 8th
Jethro says his mate will come tomorrow to organize the chicken living quarters and get everything ready for the arrival of the birds. I told him we don’t want a cockerel that’s going to wake us up in the middle of the night – I have enough problem with waking up at the dawn of crack as it is – so he has to make sure he gets one that can tell the time and hold his wake up calls until a reasonable hour.
Melissa telephoned. I was out.
A pleasant walk with Winnie this afternoon. Lots of snails and slugs are also out and about, and Jethro has been busy in the vegetable garden killing them with rather too much glee. It’s of little consequence, unless you happen to be a slug or a snail.
Cook says she’s not happy doing the cleaning and has suggested it’s about time I tried again with a cleaning lady. (I never got around to replacing the last drunkard we had.) She might be right. I mean, her name’s Cook, not Cook’n’Cleaner. And dust does indeed appear to be accumulating, not only in all the rooms, but also on we, the people. I’ll advertise in the local rag, and at the Post Office, and see if anyone’s daft enough to be interested.
Tuesday, July 9th
The chicken quarters have been installed, well out of sight of the house, though the inmates will be allowed to wander all over. I’m calling that little area where their house is “Chicken Town”. Apparently the chickens will be moving in tomorrow.
I’ve placed an advertisement in the local paper for a cleaning lady/chap (gender equality etc. though no way will a bloke apply for or get the job), and Cook also put a card up in the Post Office. I’m hoping we can find a plain middle-aged woman with absolutely no sexual charisma whatsoever. It’s of little consequence and much unlikelihood, but I don’t want to be romantically distracted.
Melissa telephoned. I know she wouldn’t want to clean for me, so I didn’t mention the job vacancy.
Thursday, July 11th
We now have 20 chickens wandering around as if they own the place, and a very smug and cocky looking cockerel. I’m not sure why we have so many. With that many chickens I imagine Cook will be sending quite a lot of omelettes my way (or making some money on the side by selling eggs without me knowing).
It’s probably of little or no consequence, but Cook and Jethro both wanted to talk to me about football. I ignored them.
Melissa telephoned. I made Cook take the call, and when they started talking about football I took Winnie out for a walk. When I came back an hour later they were still at it . . .
In other news, I had a telephone call from a Mrs. Jennings enquiring about the cleaning position. She sounds like a decent sort, and is coming here tomorrow morning for an interview.
Friday, July 12th
Mrs. Jennings came to be interviewed for the post of cleaner, and is an admirable candidate. Indeed, she brought her own dusters and started wiping down the surfaces even as we discussed the role and the duties, and she filled me in with details of her experience, backed up by relevant documentation, affidavits, no criminal record, and references. We haggled a little bit about working hours and remuneration, and came to a provisional agreement based on a two-week trial period. She starts Monday, although the drawing room is already cleaner simply as a result of her presence.
Melissa telephoned. I was busy with Mrs. Jennings so didn’t answer, and Cook was out, probably counting chickens before they hatch, apropos of which, there are no eggs yet. Jethro says they may need a day or two to settle in. What are they doing? Arranging the furniture? Sorting out their bookshelves?
I’m reading some Rabelais – not all of it, but some – and came across a remarkable passage which I’d love to copy out into the diary but it’s too long, but here’s a bit. The copying out will cheer me up:
. . . the philosopher who, when he thought most seriously to have withdrawn himself unto a solitary privacy, far from the rustling clutterments of the tumultuous and confused world, the better to improve his theory, to contrive, comment, and ratiocinate, was, notwithstanding his uttermost endeavours to free himself from all untoward noises, surrounded and environed about so with the barking of curs, bawling of mastiffs, bleating of sheep, prating of parrots, tattling of jackdaws, grunting of swine, girning of boars, yelping of foxes, mewing of cats, cheeping of mice, squeaking of weasels, croaking of frogs, crowing of cocks, cackling of hens, calling of partridges, chanting of swans, chattering of jays . . .
and it goes on like that for ages, but I’m getting sleepy. It may be of little or no consequence, but sometimes such wonderful writing makes one feel a little daunted when sitting down to write one’s own bits of genius.
Saturday, July 13th
Melissa telephoned. It was very early. I don’t know how she knew I was awake. Or was I?
Three other applications arrived by post for the cleaning job. I’ve been diligent and polite, and have replied by return to the effect that the position has been filled but I shall keep their details on record for future reference should the vacancy arise again. Then I threw the letters in the bin. I can’t be doing with the clutter. It’s of no consequence, because I’m sure Mrs Jennings will prove to be just the job.
Sunday, July 14th
When presented with my two boiled eggs this morning, Cook told me one was from the village shop and the other was the first from “our gang” as we have already started to call them, and she wanted to know if I could tell the difference. I figured that the one with the red ink mark on the shell was from the shop, and the one with traces of chicken shit on it was ours. It’s of little consequence, but I wasn’t wrong.
Melissa telephoned. Cook took the call and, on my instructions, told her I was at Sunday Worship.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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