The wood shavings are down, the lice powder is dusted into nooks and crannies, the food pellets and water are in place. We gingerly open the boxes and put the three, surprisingly placid, chickens (Kirsty taught us how to hold them) into their new home. There must be something else we need, something else we should have done, something else we should have bought? We're not really sure what to do now, so we watch.
We watch them poo. And we address the thorny issue of names. They're not pets so should we call them anything? They poo some more. I'd call them 'One', 'Two' and 'Three'. Ruby puts forward 'Glitterball', 'Pancake' and 'Isabelle', names she has also suggested for our impending new human arrival. More pooing ensues and Sarah comes up with 'The Supremes'. We decide not to decide on names yet.
It's getting dark so we close their door. We're sure the fox will get them so we barricade them in with boxes, stepladders and upturned garden furniture. Not that we're paranoid.
Christmas Day tomorrow.
