Yes, I was up early today – twenty to eight instead of eight o’clock – because I had an appointment with the chickens on the farm. As you may know, I’m standing in for Mary while she’s away in Australia so I’m the farm-sitter down at Rosie’s farm, therefore I’m the one who has to let the chickens and ducks out, and feed all the animals.

In spite of my early start, and a decided lack of make-up (who’s going to see me on the farm?), I’m ashamed to say that I still managed to be ten minutes late, something which that fancy rooster obviously wasn’t tremendously happy about. Having opened the hen-houses and given the chickens a generous helping of their special meal mix, I was coming back from the stable tap with a bucketful of fresh water for them when the bigger of the cockerels, the brightly coloured cock, made a bee-line for me. As bold as brass, he ran up to me and jumped onto my thigh. Luckily, today I am wearing incredibly thick jogging pants (not too attractive – alright, ugly – except to that cockerel) and his talons failed to make a deep impression – no blood.

“Get off,” I screamed at him whilst running and still holding the bucket of water in front of me.

The bucket was a shocking pink “gorilla” bucket, one of those large two-handled buckets that builders use, thus I was unable to free a hand and push off the nasty cockerel. He was too heavy to hang on for long – he was off… and off, quite literally, chasing me! He caught up with me (I was wearing Wellington boots, otherwise he wouldn’t have had a chance in hell) and he leapt onto my thigh again, briefly.  He continued to chase me until I had filled all the water receptacles in the chicken run.

Did he hate being cooped up that much? Was it because last night I had let one of the white chickens (from the other hen-house) stay with his brood? Was she really that bad a sleeping companion? Did she repel him? I asked myself these questions and more… Did he not recognise me in that large pink coat, which I’ve never worn before because it was too big, but which fits a treat over five layers of clothing, three of which were heavy jumpers? (It’s quite cold of a morning on the farm.) Perhaps pink is a “red rag to a bull” to him?

Whatever his reasons, shortly I shall be sure to be more careful to house the hens in their proper abodes; I’ll never again carry the water out in the pink “gorilla” bucket (no matter how practical it seems); and I’ll find a coat of a different colour to wear on the farm. Following our little run-around I had my own back by chasing the cock with my camera; but truthfully, I don’t think he objected – he strutted his stuff “as proud as a peacock”.