Hen Aversion
[A 'break' chapter entitled 'Poulet!' to fly us back to England for a new very small creature adventure...]
‘Hey little hen when, when, when
Will you lay me an egg for my tea?’
written by Ralph Butler and Noel Gay
Hens were vital to our survival at La Combe. Their contribution was primarily their eggs, secondarily their manure and lastly – irregularly – their lives if they ventured more than once or twice into the vegetable patch.
There was at least one occasion when we had to feed our entire group with hand’s worth of eggs.
I was terrified of poultry for good reason.
Only five, my parents had offered to mind a chicken farm in Surrey for some close friends.
The chickens came up to my little waist, and, naturally, gathered round us as we walked to the barn to feed them.
‘Just brush them aside with your boots’ said mum.
I tried.
But there was this one hen that wouldn’t stop pecking at my thighs. Why wouldn’t it go away?
Beginning to cry, mum lifted me up and the chicken – still scolding with its clucks – shot away from the little foot that had been stepping on it.
I hated hens.
And my hatred grew, for when I returned back to suburbia my stomach and legs were covered in bites.
On close inspection, it was found that chicken fleas – much larger than the human variety – had nested in my tummy button.
They prompted my first exposure to bullying and won me the nickname ‘Leigh-bag-flea-bag’.
Let us make a hasty retreat from the remembering before you start irrationally itching. Instead, meet the sweetest little French hen, who infested our group with joyful clucking: Aude [next post].
#hens #poultry #fear #fleas