>They strangle chickens, don’t they?

Having just murdered my favourite chicken, Lady, I’m riddled by remorse. She was a happy hen. She asked for little and gave little in return, which was why she had to go. And although the guilt is all consuming, that’s more than can be said about her output over the past few months. No, as any cockerel could confirm, her laying days were well and truly over. I’m going to miss having her around, though.She loved to scratch and peck, peck and scratch and even, when feeling overwhelmingly adventurous, scratch-scratch-scratch-stop-look-peck-peck. In the early evenings she would come and sit at my feet, as I stretched my weary legs alongside the garden table. Together we’d watch the sun head West, me with a pitcher of plonk, she with a crumbled crisp. Both with empty, bruised brains. 


About yractual

A former lawyer and national daily journalist, now a freelance music journalist, with moves bewteen Spain, Sweden, France and who knows where next! A Scot by birth and inclination. Lover of acoustic ragtime-blues guitar and ukulele. Work with music titles across three continents.
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