Last week, the air in my neighbourhood was stirred. Leaders of three political parties all paid a whirlwind visit in Eastleigh, to fight for the February by-election. I’ve a theory that the arrival of these politicians (Prime Minister David Cameron, Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg and Ed Milliband, leader of the Labour party) have somehow disturbed the harmony in the region, which consequently provoked an imbalance of the yin and yang in the atmosphere.
That might explain why my house is not at peace. My chickens sensed an omen was upon us.
I told you two days ago that one of my hens was killed. My husband now revealed that there indeed was an injury on the hen around her neck. Based on the distribution of the feathers in the garden — two groups of feathers, suggesting that the chicken was first killed in one location, then was dragged along the bush — my husband the mathematician reasoned that the hen might have been killed by a weasel.
Early this morning, we were woken up by a phone call. My neighbour left an urgent voice mail, “Your chickens are running around the close.” This is not a typical voice mail one would get on a Sunday morning.
To show his manliness, in a half-asleep state, my husband went to catch the chickens. Chickens are smarter than politicians. They are more agile than a blade runner. My husband only managed to catch one chicken back after half an hour, with the help of a neighbour. The other hen decided to hide in neighbour G’s garden. Neighbour G was out, so we couldn’t do anything about this missing chicken.
At 5pm, neighbour G ran over to tell us our chicken was in his garden. We quickly formed a team of 5 athletes to rescue the chicken. We charmed, lured, sweet-talked, whistled, kneeled, stooped, crawled, sprinted. None worked. The chicken knew it was a hide-and-seek game. She was a guerilla who knew her territory; we the army were in total disarray.
Half an hour later, 5 athletes were all bruised, hair dishevelled. Neighbour G’s crowned immaculate garden lost its sparkle. We had trampled on his spring flowers as the chase got intense, and a few branches were pulled off. Later, to make her statement, the chicken flew to the top of the pillar, singing, You can’t catch me, na na na na.’
I know, we’re now officially the Neighbour from Hell.
Back home, the chicken caught back this morning refused to return to her coop. She sat on top of the pillar, a bit frightened.
Now, we have one chicken on top of the pillar of our garden; another chicken is on top of the pillar in my neighbour’s garden.
What would happen tomorrow morning?
What have disturbed my chickens in the past week? Weasels? Bad Feng Shui?