There are still two of Rose’s bantams left and a cockerel, all seven years old now. So lucky that she had them, because when the fox killed all but one of my flock, I was able to start again with the lovely chickens that have lived here for over 30 years.

Polly doesn’t walk too well now but she still eats a lot and is quite happy. Rose helped me cut her claws a few weeks ago, but it hasn’t made a lot of difference. She potters out to the run, but usually comes to roost quite early in the afternoon. Not today, however. I went out fairly early, probably around 5 o’clock and all the chickens came running in for their mealworm treats. I fed them, closed up the feeder and gave them fresh water, then went to close the hatch to the run. Polly was outside and had no intention of moving.

The run is 3 feet high, so awkward to climb into (I have one corner with a removable cover) and worse to climb out of. So I fetched things to stand on, in and out, and awkwardly clambered in. Of course, it’s far too low to walk, even bent, so I crawled over and picked her up and took her back to the tunnel. My idea was that I’d get out again and close up, but she started to move outwards again. Luckily, I was just able to reach the door that slots down and I firmly shut it with her indoors. Then, on the way back, I discovered a nest of three eggs that some of them have started today. Little rotters. My knees still sting from the nettles.

I’ve written to everyone who was left a legacy in Tim’s will and also to Reading friends to invite them to dinner while I’m there next month. We have to finish with a party, after all, for Tim.

I discovered a relaxed live version of one of my favourite albums this evening. Here it is.