“Oh my God, what’s that?”
I quickly scanned the garden, alighting on the swing, on which my son was doing his level best to strangle himself but still seemed hale and hearty.
“No, not him – on top of the chicken pen!”
A large grey bird was perched on top of the pen, six feet above the ground. At first, it looked like a huge pigeon, but on closer inspection it turned out to be Vi, who had clearly been eavesdropping on last Thursday’s philosophical discussion and had decided to prove that she could fly after all. But then, having reached the top of the pen, she’d clearly got very confused and wasn’t at all sure where to go next.
This time round, it was much easier getting her back in the pen – after wobbling unsteadily on the top, she flew back down to join the others. But we’ve added some kind of roof to our shopping list – which we were planning to get anyway after Jane had a dream about a fox getting in over the top by vaulting over the chicken house. This time next month it’ll probably be electrified razor wire – in fact, we’re already referring to the pen as the State Henitentiary.