An excerpt from the diary of Danielle-Spencer the hen:
It might be morning, I don’t know. It’s still dark. Water and chunks of ice are falling from the sky. We huddle under the shelter and peer gloomily out. It could be the apocalypse.
Definitely the apocalypse. A hooded person appeared through the ice and chased us through the mud. Now I am in a house of card. The house moves and lurches. My tiny feet scrabble on the floor. Maybe I will sit.
The lurching has stopped.
The house of card is unfolding. Tigers? Lions? A tiny person? Oh my.
The tigers are stalking me, trying to look excited, but I can see the fear in their eyes. I am Chicken! One loud bok and they disappear. The tiny person isn’t so easily got rid of. At least there is no falling ice here.
And no mud. Look! I can hop here…and here…and here on these bits of cloth draped all around. And up! Up to the… pretend sky? This is too confusing. I will sit.
I see another chicken. In a field? I can just hop… no. Is it a pretend field?
I am moving. I didn’t mean to move, but I am moving. And I’m in the field. It is not pretend.
Holy crap. Gotta run.
Aaaaaaarrrrrghhhhhh. Big chicken has a big beak.
Ha! Hiding place. I will sit here. Shame about the water falling on me.
The hooded person is back with a funny tent. But my hiding place is secure.
Or not. Back in the house of card. Am so confused. Will putting all this food in the water and pooping on it help? No.
Dark again. House of card has disappeared. I am in a bed of straw. This might not be so dreadful.
What fresh hell is this? My bed of straw is at the feet of the big chicken. The big chicken is awake. And he is shouting? Beats pecking me I guess.
Ah. Food is coming. Even in the apocalypse there is food. That’s reassuring.
Crap. Big chicken has seen me. Running. Running. Flying! Take that big chicken!
Big chicken is shouting. From my lovely tree I can watch his curious ways. Ah see (I say in my best David Attenboroughesque voice), see how the big chicken makes his journey from the house of straw to the water hole? Pausing only to poop, and shout, and stretch his left wing, and shout, and stretch his right wing, and shout. See how he makes himself so tall to shout? Almost like a dance. And now, having taken his fill from the water hole, he begins his slow, erratic march to the lemon tree. To shout at the lemons? I could do this all day.
But what is this on the horizon? Another hooded person. With no hood. And another person. Are they following the big chicken? Oh now this could be fun.
Big chicken runs and shouts. People run and shout. They flap a big flappy tent at the big chicken. Ha ha big chicken, see how you like running in the long long grass. Oh. The big chicken is in the flappy tent. And gone.
All is quiet. Bit bored now.
Hmm. Getting dark again. Bit of drool on my feathers. Must have had a nap. Might venture down for a snack.
Damn. Forgot about the apocalypse. People are back with big flappy tent. But I am fast.
See, people? I am up. Bye bye people.
I am definitely well suited to this David Attenborough gig. I have found a new field. It is small and full of low, brown sticks. Excellent for sitting.
Sitting. Sitting. Contented sitting. A bit of scratching about. Some whispery commentating of the march of the ants. More sitting.
Not more people. I was just getting into a really good sit.
The people are circling. I will hop over here….no, that’s no good. Over here? No. Hands waving at me. Here? No. Ouch. Didn’t see that stick.
And I am up. But not flying. My wings are folded tight. I am with the people.
And now I am in a funny plastic house. Small people and tigers are watching me. This apocalypse is exhausting.
The plastic house is lurching.
And I am home. Home, glorious home.