Hens Dancing Read Online Free PDF

from its rubber spiral, or damp laundry spewing from the washing machine, to follow her as she scoops herself down the drive with Rags. Giles offers to look after her this morning, but becomes engrossed in Billy Whizz; The Beauty eats three geranium heads and is sick.
    â€˜She’s been sick, Mum.’ Giles wanders off, reminding me unpleasantly of his father. The Beauty takes advantage and vanishes. This time I discover her with Felix. He is attempting to climb a small flowering tree with her, but has not yet got far up it. He is doing well. The Beauty is wedged into a fork in the branches and squeals and claps with delight as Felix climbs up past her then reaches down to lift her onto her next perch. There she rests, a vision of rustic charm, in her green jersey with ladybirds on it, waving a fat hand at me from behind a spray of apple blossom.
    Mustard the cockerel is in attendance. He is a control freak and polices the garden daily to make sure that all is as it should be. He likes to find The Beauty in her pram under a tree, and hops onto the handle to cast a beady eye over her as she sleeps. Sometimes he cannot resist spoiling everything, and crows mightily from this vantage point, startling The Beauty awake and causing her to yell. This morning he is not pleased to find her flitting aboutin treetops, and perches himself at a cautious distance on the swing to watch while emitting a ghastly slow groaning noise.
    April 27th
    What was to have been a lazy Monday morning due to the boys having the day off, is shattered by the shrilling of the doorbell and pounding on the door at seven-fifteen. It is David Lanyon and two carbuncled henchmen, one with a bobble hat, one without.
    â€˜Hi, I hope you don’t mind, I’ve brought Digger.’ He gestures towards the garden where a muscular black Labrador is aiming a jet of steaming urine at my green tulips. David is a shining example of health, optimism and clean laundry; he has on a washed-out red guernsey and jeans faded to the point that I always long for mine to reach. He chats to the boys, who are hanging around in the hall in their pyjamas. Giles and Felix bond with him instantly.
    â€˜Mum, have you seen David’s trainers? They’re excellent. Can I have some?’ His helpers are less fragrant, and look like a couple of Scaven Dwarves from the boy’s Warhammer armies. I begin to feel utterly invaded as they tramp in and out with toothy saws, rolls of cable andsagging metal toolboxes. David’s car, an old Red Cross Land Rover with logo still intact, is reversed right up to the door to speed the unloading process. The postman arrives, and even though he only has one thin card reminding me of The Beauty’s vaccination dates and the door is wide open, he finds it necessary to ring the bell and express concern.
    â€˜Hope nobody’s been badly hurt,’ he says, and I smile as disdainfully as I can with sheepskin slippers, bare legs and a helping of Ready Brek plastered over my shoulders.
    â€˜Not yet, but that may change.’ My taut, brooding delivery is faultless, and he drives off very alarmed.
    later
    The bathroom is a cross between a potential Little Mermaid’s sea palace and Stig’s dump. Sticks of MDF and little piles of sawdust lie among the stacks of castellated wood and odd lengths of gleaming copper piping. Plastic tubes, sand, insulating foam and baskets of mottled shells fill every spare inch, and there is no way anyone will be able to use the room for at least a week.
    The two Dwarf Warriors have gone, David is teaching Giles and Felix how to slow-bowl on the lawn and The Beauty is having her bath in the kitchen sink. This is huge fun. She puts a green flannel on her headand delivers her mad, squeaky laugh. As I lift her out, Digger trots past the window with a blur of feathers in his mouth. Wild rage surges. I scream, ‘You bloody bastard shithead dog.’ The Beauty’s face crumples and her mouth