That tabby is adorable. This morning, he was curled again round his brother, completely protective. They are fine tonight, all five of them, and came for their dinner. That job is truly jobbed, with complete success and I think I’ve done pretty well, not without help I’ve steam-cleaned the trap and will return it on Saturday morning.
I’ve taken legal advice (from solicitor cousin) on the court case – have I mentioned it here? Can’t remember – and have made an offer – without prejudice, natch. I’m up for a fight if it comes to it, but would be pleased not to be obliged to.
Otherwise, I haven’t done a lot today, quite deliberately. I’ve fed and watered the hens and the chicks, of course – they all keep turning over their water pots, which is a nuisance. One lot of chicks has an avocado dish for water and it was overturned – when I righted it, a damp little chick emerged from underneath. They were all quite thirsty, apart from that one, silly little things. They’re all well and it’s just me who isn’t happy. Four coops to look after is silly. I do like to have fresh eggs and am a bit pernickety about it – much as I like a poached egg, I won’t cook one that way if it’s more than two days old. More than about five days and I only use them for cakes or similar. I do it because I can, I suppose I’ll adjust to shop-bought eggs one day … actually, I’m not sure I will. My mind recoils at the thought, which is a bit uncomfortable, sitting as I am on the sofa.
My cleaners came today, so I didn’t bother with anything in the housework line, other than emptying and restacking the dishwasher. I’ve read the papers – not a book, I’m not doing well with reading books. I can concentrate, but only on things that matter and fiction doesn’t seem to, at present. I know this is normal, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s disconcerting and I wonder when things will change. I’ve got a stack of books that I’ve bought, started but not finished.
Jobs are stacking up. From tomorrow, I must crack on.