29 27 Operation Sage and Onion, and Vuvuzelas

27 Operation Sage and Onion, and Vuvuzelas

I wasn’t present, of course, and had to rely on the accounts of those who were. I was fascinated to hear how Gin Twin Sue would cope with her first-ever pets and the rescue of the ex-battery hens. Her husband had given her a chicken coop for Christmas and, having recovered from the shock, she had registered for some ex-batts way back in January. But she had to wait until the summer when some deserving hens would become available.

Now summer had arrived. Mark, Sue’s husband, painted a pretty good picture of events in this letter to me.

Mark wrote:

‘West Sussex British Hen Welfare Trust seemed to have run out of ex-battery chooks so we were put in touch with Dorset and went with Gin Twin "Chicken Whisperer" Juliet and Sue to Dorchester (3hr round trip for some aged hens ???). Operation Sage & Onion was under way. There must have been 200-300 to choose from in a large barn so Gin Twins 1 and 2 picked the nearest 3 that "looked nice". We'd come armed with regulation size boxes with regulation size air holes (BHWT are very strict on transportation boxes). Juliet sat in the back talking to the chooks all the way home to keep them settled.’

The chickens were put into their new coop and the question of names came under discussion. Mark and Sue named one Jalfrezi, Ruth, Sue’s daughter, called hers Beaker, while brother Joe’s was Lady Henrietta as she already seemed to have assumed the Top Hen slot.

The Gin Twins stayed in the garden with the chickens and a bottle of gin: a Hen Party.

Hen party

To celebrate, Beaker actually laid an egg, albeit a shell-less one that looked as though it had been laid in clingfilm, but an egg nevertheless. A few days later, another egg appeared, a sound one this time, which was eaten for breakfast with much lip-smacking and appreciation. The girls settled in well, even though Mark’s vegetable plot suffered.

But disaster loomed just around the corner.

Mark wrote:

‘All went well until one day poor Henrietta looked off colour. No amount of encouraging her with tidbits did any good, and 3 days later she passed away to the Chooks Cloud in heaven (or that's what I told Sue). Juliet, devastated by the news, came round the next day but only burst out laughing when shown a bin-bagged parcel the exact shape of a hen (rigor mortis had set in). I think she still feels bad about laughing.

Barely a week had gone by when I got a text at work. "Phone home as soon as you can." Sue was in tears - poor Beaker had been ambushed by a fox in broad daylight and was no more. Nothing for it but to get another couple - Kiev and Tikka.

Whereas the first 3 got along together fine, Jalfrezi and Tikka decided that Kiev was the lowest of the low and definitely bottom of the pecking order. They picked on her mercilessly, so much so she was soon a bald oven-ready bloody quivering mess and clearly in imminent risk of death. On to the internet ( as you do) to research what could be done, and discovered something called "anti peck" spray that the website said discouraged cannibal behaviour in hens and pigs. This clearly was the stuff to sort the problem and a can was duly acquired from the local small holder store. Unfortunately the first attempt to spray poor Kiev alarmed her so much she flew screeching from the nesting box - have you ever tried to recapture a traumatised chicken? Not easy, but eventually she was back in the coop, where, despite stinking to high heaven of "anti cannibal" spray, was pecked all the more. Back to the internet.

"Badly pecked hens must be segregated in a separate coop" it said. Good advice if you happen to have a spare coop - but we didn't, so muggins had to go to B&Q for wood, wire mesh and a new saw (couldn't find the old one - shows how much DIY I do). So, 2 days in the garage sawing and nailing with a cold led to a week off work with laryngitis.

Kiev now looks like a hen again, as opposed to road-kill, but still lives a separate life from the others. Her earlier traumas have completely stopped egg production, Jalfrezi seems to have retired from laying, leaving Tikka providing 1 egg every other day. Taking into account the cost of the first coop (£150), Kiev's personal confinement coop (£100), electronic ultrasonic fox deterrent (£40 and clearly didn't work), anti-cannibal spray (£10 also didn't work) plus numerous other food additives, feeds, straw and other pampering; and the average cost of each egg must be a fiver each.

Sorry, didn't mean to write so much.

Cheers,

Mark x’

“Pah!” said Paco, thumping the table with his balled fist. “That daughter of ours is never going to find a husband.”

The corners of Carmen-Bethina’s mouth turned down sadly as she nodded her head in agreement.

“Perhaps the policeman boyfriend was not the right one for her,” I suggested, recalling what we had seen at the cemetery that night. “I’m sure the right one will come along.”

“Where will she find a husband?” asked Paco. “She doesn’t like anybody in the village. She doesn’t like anybody at her work. She doesn’t like any of our friends’ sons in the city. I think Little Paco will get married before she does.”

Little Paco, who was watching TV and sharing the couch with Bianca, pulled a face and shuddered at the thought. He was thirteen now and his only love was football.

“I see the Mayor’s new house is finished,” said Joe, changing the subject. “How on earth did he get permission to build it out there on rural land?”

“Didn’t I tell you he would build a fine new house?” said Paco. “Pah! He is the Mayor, so he can do whatever he likes. On the plans they will call the building an almacén.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

“An almacén? An agricultural warehouse? But it looks nothing like a warehouse, it’s more like a palace!” Joe was indignant.

“¡Claro!” said Paco, leaning forward. “But that’s the way they do it out here in Andalucía. They call it an almacén even if it has a swimming pool, gardens and luxury bathrooms.”

“I see The Monstrosity is almost finished, too,” I said. “Twenty-seven apartments! The apartments must be very small inside. And I still don’t understand why they painted the whole thing bright yellow. Who is going to buy a poky little yellow apartment in El Hoyo?”

“The foreman told me that most of them are already sold,” said Carmen-Bethina, her double chins wobbling.

The conversation moved on to the usual topic, football. World Cup fever had gripped Spain in earnest and nobody escaped. Spain was heaving sighs of relief having won the next two matches against Honduras and Chile. The humiliating defeat by Switzerland was a distant, unpleasant memory, not to be dwelled upon.

The first time I heard the buzz of vuvuzelas, I thought there was something seriously wrong with our TV. It was one of the first games of the World Cup, and the televised stadium vibrated with the hum of thousands of these ‘musical’ instruments, drowning out the commentary. Joe pointed out the vuvuzelas and explained that they were traditional in South Africa. Originally they were made of kudu horn and were designed to call Africans back to their villages. But now they were being mass produced in their millions. Two feet long and made of plastic, these horns emitted a single note. Every spectator in the South African stadium seemed to have one glued to his lips, and the rest of the world either accepted it, or switched off their television sets.

Complaints flooded in from the viewing public calling for vuvuzelas to be banned, but Sepp Blatter, the president of FIFA, had the last word. ‘We should not try to Europeanise an African World Cup ... that is what African and South African football is all about — noise, excitement, dancing, shouting and enjoyment’. So vuvuzelas became part of the World Cup experience, whether we liked it or not. Vuvuzelas sold in their millions all around the world.

Vuvuzelas had even come to El Hoyo. Every child had one and many adults, too. Little Paco had one, all the Ufarte kids had one, and Geronimo now had one permanently sticking out of his pocket alongside his bottle of San Miguel.

One Saturday, we heard two little taps on our front door. Joe opened it to reveal the Ufarte twins on the doorstep.

“Papa said to give you and Tía Veeky these for tomorrow,” said Twin #2.

“Papa said that the way England is playing football, they need all the help they can get,” said Twin #1.

They pressed two vuvuzelas into Joe’s reluctant hands and skipped away, giggling behind their hands, leaving Joe squirming at the reminder of England’s lamentable performance to date.

Of course we supported England first, followed by Spain, but our team seemed to lack its customary sparkle, and was performing badly. Of the three matches already played, they’d lost one and drawn two, all against lesser teams. An embarrassing statistic bearing in mind that England had invented the game.

“Shall we take them with us when we go to Judith’s and Mother’s tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yes, why not? It’ll give them a laugh,” said Joe. “I don’t expect they’ll have seen a vuvuzela before except on TV.”

We’d been invited to watch England playing Germany at Judith’s house the following day. It was a crucial match - if England lost, they were out of the World Cup. And to lose against sporting archenemy Germany would be unthinkable, the epitome of humiliation.

“We Brits must stick together, don’t you know,” Judith had said on the phone. “Come on over and we’ll have a jolly old drinky-poo and watch Old Blighty trounce the Jerries.”

Germany was also on my mind for a reason far removed from football. Sandra Marshall had contacted me with news that should have delighted me, but in fact threw me into a deep depression.

To help find homes for them all in Germany, Sandra had asked me for photos of the kittens and MumCat for her blog. In fact, I’d gone one better than that and put together a little movie of them. The response was excellent, and Sandra was confident that homes would soon be offered.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” I said dully to Joe. “They’ll all go off to Germany next month to their new homes.”

Sometimes Joe has a disconcerting knack of seeing right through me. He stared into my face for a few seconds, before speaking.

“It’s okay, we’ll keep Chox. He can stay with us. He doesn’t have to go to Germany.”

I threw my arms around him. “Are you sure?” I said. “I thought we’d agreed we couldn’t keep any.”

“I know. It’s probably not very sensible, but Chox is rather special.”

“You’re staying with us,” I whispered into Chox’s soft ear later. “You don’t have to wear lederhosen and learn to speak German after all.”

Chox purred, and I took that to be a signal that he approved.

“Come in! Come in!” roared Judith from within. “Just push the door open, it’s not locked. Tyson! Invisible! Fluffy! Half! Leave poor Joe and Vicky alone, they’ve just come to watch England clobber the Jerries.”

Obediently, we pushed the front door open and waded through the dogs who whipped us with their tails and sniffed us with huge interest, probably picking up the scent of our kittens.

Tyson, Invisible, Fluffy and Half led the way to the living room. I smelled the familiar scent of Chanel No.5. Adjusting our eyes to the gloom, we were met by Judith, who planted kisses on our cheeks. Mother was draped on the chaise longue and didn’t arise, but smiled welcomingly.

“Mother won’t get up,” said Judith. “She gets a bit stiff, don’t you know. She’ll loosen up a bit later after a couple of brandies and one of her herbal cigarettes. Won’t you, Mother? Not bad for ninety-one, is she?”

Mother always looked glamourous, but today she looked quite magnificent. She wore a full-length silky blue dress, red shoes and matching belt, and a white lacy shawl thrown jauntily around her shoulders.

“Red, white and blue!” said Judith, catching my look. “Got to be patriotic, haven’t we, m’dears? Today we’re going to teach those bloody Jerries a lesson they won’t forget. Ah, and are those eggs for us? Top hole! So fresh and tasty, aren’t they? I see you’ve brought your own vulva-azaleas, too. Jolly good! We’ve got ours.”

And they had. Mother’s manicured hands were curled around hers like birds’ claws at roost and Judith’s was propped up against her chair, ready and waiting.

We sat down and glasses of local ruby wine were thrust into our hands. The dogs settled down, noses on paws, eyes watchful. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I discerned all the cat shapes decorating shelves, antique chairs and the grand piano like ornaments. Judith wanted to know all our news from the village.

“I hear the Mayor’s house is finished?” she said. Judith’s village shared the Mayor with ours. “I hear he’s going to have a house-warming party. Typical bloody Spanish, any excuse for a get-together. And how are you coping living next to those Ufartes? And what about those kitties of yours? I’d take ’em like a shot if I could, but we’re rather overloaded with animals, don’t you know.”

She waved her hand to indicate the menagerie, and the dogs lifted their heads. I could see five dogs, but I knew there were another six somewhere in the house. Judith had stuck to her resolve never to have ten dogs, so they still had nine and a Half and one that was Invisible. Half wagged his tail when I looked at him.

“Oh, the kittens are growing fast,” I said, “and they’ve all got homes waiting. But we’re keeping Choccy-Paws.”

“Oh, excellent!” said Judith. “Jolly good show! That little cat would melt the heart of a bloody snowman. Awfully pleased to hear you’re keeping him after all! That’s jolly good news, isn’t it, Mother?”

But Mother was thoughtfully drawing on her herbal cigarette and seemed to be in a world of her own.

“It’s nearly five o’clock,” said Joe, looking at the polished pendulum clock on the mantelpiece. “The match is about to start.”