‘Brrringggg brrringggg!’

(NB that was the sound of the telephone ringing, as transcribed onto the page).

It is Big A. We chat inconsequentially for a couple of minutes, before he announces that he has a favour to ask me.

I am immediately on my guard. This means that he will want me to look after his chickens whilst he goes away. As the premier chicken expert in the Village, I am always being asked to look after people’s chickens. And whilst that is no hassle, it is a bit of a hassle, and I do not need the extra eggs.

Big A has three rescued battery chickens, including one that he calls ‘J Lo’ because it has an enormous sort of growth on its arse. They are good natured birds, and I do owe him a favour for the use of his washing machine. I take a deep breath and ask him what his favour is.

“Can you put my bins out for me?”

I am a bit stunned by this. “Don’t you want me to look after the chickens?” I ask, to which he replies that the people over the road are happy to do that.

Sacked!!! I am sacked as first-choice chicken-looker-after!!! I replace the receiver angrily. I am good enough to do the bins, but not good enough to do the chickens.

The next morning, I wander over to get his bins. An ex-battery chicken with an enormous arse protrusion gazes at me through the garden gate, giving me a slightly disdainful look. This chicken seems a bit above herself. I might be a mere binman, but she is just Jenny from the Flock.

The Washing Machine Man should be coming tomorrow, with the spare part.

“Of course it is,” I reassure him.

“Are you sure that’s ok?” I ask, in turn.

“No problem,” affirms Big A, on the other end of the telephone.

Relieved, I grab some of the most urgent washing and stuff it into a bin bag, before taking another black bag from the cupboard, trotting outside, and filling it with some spare straw for his chickens. It is neighbourly transactions like this that make communities go round. I scoot down the garden path, feeling all community-minded.

It occurs to me, as I am half way across the road, that I have no identification on me whatsoever. No credit cards, no driving license, nothing. And it also occurs to me that, should the worst happen and I am run over by a passing haulier, the police will be faced with the task of piecing together my entire life based on the profile of an unidentified accident victim found with one black bag of farmyard straw and one black bag of womans’ used panties.

I do not wish my life to be reduced to ‘Body – STRAW/PANTIES’ on a whiteboard in some anonymous police station somewhere. Thank God for the upcoming ID cards – I wish we could have them sooner.

Big A is waiting at his front door, and takes the straw gratefully. He shows me to his washing machine.

“How does it work?” I ask.

He looks blank. “Search me,” he replies.

It is quite entertaining I decide, and nowhere near as expensive as people say.

Plus it is amazing how stupid and dangerous some drivers can be on the roads, especially when there are brave patrolmen around who will catch them and send them to jail, using video footage as evidence.

Desperately seeking a new way of keeping myself awake until at least the beginning of the evening, I take a stroll outside. “Chickens!!! Chickens!!! Hellloooooooo chickens!!!” I coo, wandering over towards their compound to tell them about my trip. We have lots to talk about, and I would like them to give me some advice on judging my competition, which was a roaring success with literally entries.

All is quiet. This is odd. Normally the lightest footfall on the gravel path results in a blur of chickendom, tumbling over each other to be first in the queue for elevenses. I reach the door and there is no sound.

“Chickens…?”

No blur, no frantic pecking, not even a friendly cluck. The chickens are mooching around on Short Tony’s side of the enclosure, utterly disinterested in my presence. One raises a blase chicken eyebrow at me before resuming nosing around in dirt.

My chickens have forgotten me. I stand helplessly in the doorway, at a stroke having become one of the great tragic figures of poultry-rearing. And tragedy is the word. In fact, a man who is getting on a bit being coldly betrayed by his five chickens – it is uncannily close to the plot of King Lear.

I turn wordlessly away and fetch a small bite to eat for them. They cluck happily and remember me again. Chickens are shallow. It is a shame that King Lear did not have access to some cornflakes, as things would have turned out much better.

“Let me tell you about my travels,” I begin…

I am not particularly good at the confessional stuff.

Frankly, I would always prefer to keep things to myself. Although psychologists probably recommend it, I am not a big fan of exposing yourself by being all open and shouting stuff from rooftops. That is what Neville Chamberlain did, and he never quite got the same level of respect again.

I think for a while before speaking.

“I am a bit stressed, that’s all,” I mumble, going a bit red. “I’ve got loads and loads of work on, and I’m finding the Toddler quite demanding on my patience and need for personal space. So I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit – you know.”

“Added to that,” I continue, “the LTLP said that I was ‘just fucking odd’ the other night. I’m still really down about the unfairness of that.” I pause for a second. “I’m sorry. You’ve all got your own problems, I know.”

“Cluck,” reply the chickens.

I set down their bacon and beans, which they seem extremely pleased with. Honestly, even if I am a bit miserable, there is nothing better than an appreciative audience for a nice meal you’ve cooked.

“Anyway. I think I need to make a couple of positive decisions,” I announce. “Sort of sit down and work out what’s important to me and what – are you ignoring me?!?”

The chickens peck frantically at their lunch. A couple have already grabbed bits of bacon and run off to the other side of their garden to eat it on their own. I gaze over at them in dismay before stomping out through the door and bolting it furiously behind me.

“You’re just fucking rude!” I shout.

Eleven chickens. Eleven!!!

Honestly, I do not know how I get in to these things. One minute I have a few chickens trotting around in my garden, the next minute I have become some sort of emergency chicken looker-after and advice service.

I slurp down my morning tea and hare across the road to my first appointment.

I am growing a bit concerned about the Vicarage chickens. They do not seem to eat much. Here I am, dashing to their immediate relief, a chicken knight in shining armour, Egg Adair – but they have not even eaten their dinner from yesterday. Or the day before. I try to encourage them by making hungry chicken noises and flapping my arms and miming eating things, but they are not at all interested. I take their eggs, thoughtfully.

It seems apparent that they have anorexia. I am not sure whether I should feel responsible for this. They are a year or so old, and I have just introduced six healthy fine young pedigree chicken specimens into the Village to compete with them. They definitely have a self-image problem, and I do not know what to do to address this, apart from point out to them that one of ours got shot, so things are not all bad for them. I will speak to the Vicaragers on their return.

Eleven chickens!!! I am like some Norfolk version of Bernard Matthews.

I zip round the corner to Big A’s. His chickens start throwing themselves at the wire as soon as they see me approaching with food. I open their door, checking for post, and they mob me, surrounding, jostling and squawking. I am surprised nobody has made a horror movie about chickens. I tip their food into their tin and they launch themselves in it with ravening beaks. This tin was totally full up yesterday.

They are clearly bullemic. It is fairly obvious what has happened: as rescued battery hens, they are enjoying eating things other than mashed-up pieces of other chickens, but are alarmed that they are putting on weight quickly. If I search hard enough I will find some chicken sick. It is very sad. I take the eggs and stomp home.

My chickens are happy as always. They are the best chickens in the Village, not that I am competitive dad or anything, oh no. I would get some work done, but by the time I have finished chickening it is almost nightfall, and there are emails in my inbox from people who have chicken problems and have discovered my expertise by using the internet.

This is probably how Dr Raj Persaud started. I would start penning a chicken column for the quality Sundays, but I cannot get to my desk for eggs. I am proud to have demystified chickens for the masses, but it is perhaps time to move on a bit.

“It is crazy,” I confess. “I’m just so totally busy.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. Egg production has restarted in earnest, with the chickens particularly liking their treat from Patisserie Valerie, and I pack a basket to the brim.

“I mean yesterday,” I continue, “I must have started at around ten, and I honestly didn’t stop until at least half-four. I just don’t know how I’m managing.”

Short Tony gives me a sympathetic look. Any more of this and I will become stressed or contract yuppie flu, if it still exists. In fact I am sure I can detect the beginnings of yuppie flu in my arms. I stretch them, anxiously.

“We’re going away all week,” he replies. “Can I leave you to look after the chickens?”

I am a bit taken aback by this. Here I am, working harder than anybody has ever had to work in the world ever, and he is leaving me with sole responsibility of the chickens. I do not reveal my annoyance as I nod my agreement.

I carry the basket of eggs to Eddie’s house. Unconvincingly-voiced magician Derren Brown appears over one shoulder, telling me not to drop them. “Do not drop them…” he insists. “Do not drop them…” I swat at him irritably, worrying that I am going to drop them, what with him telling me not to drop them and the yuppie flu in my arms.

I do not drop them. But Eddie is out. I knock for ages, but realise that I will have to take them home again. Derren is very amused by this. Despite the arm situation, I carry the basket out in front of me, ensuring that everything is level and that no eggs crack against each other. “Do not drop them… do not drop them…” he maintains.

Later, I ring Eddie. “Are you at home?” I demand. “I have your eggs.”

Eddie confirms that she is at home, by medium of answering her home telephone. “Don’t drop them,” she barks.

I head up the hill with the basket of eggs. Derren Brown has switched to the other shoulder, and is taunting me once more. Despite the fact that it is really uncomfortable, I maintain my rigid and unyielding grip on the basket of eggs, keeping my worried eyes peeled for potholes in the road where I might trip.

I knock on the door. There is no reply. I knock again, and ring, and knock. There is still no reply. After about ten minutes I head grumpily back down the hill. Derren Brown is pissing himself by now, telling me that on no occasion must I drop the eggs. I am so busy that I do not have time for such tomfoolery, and the yuppie flu is really getting to my aching limbs by now, although I am aware that I am going on about that a bit. That is the thing with yuppie flu. It is all ME ME ME.

I reach the cottage without dropping the eggs. Comedy’s misfortune is my gain!!! Later, Eddie calls to apologise for not answering the door, claiming showerdom. She walks round to pick up the eggs. I advise her not to drop them as she carries them home.

Big A pops round. He is going away, and wants me to look after his chickens. I agree. I am a martyr.

“WHAT are my Denby bowls doing in there?!?” snarls the LTLP.

I shrug my shoulders and make vague noises, which is what I generally do when I don’t want to answer a question. She is as unimpressed with this as was the woman in the Registry Office.

“I thought perhaps the standard of crockery might make a difference,” I mumble, hiding a Le Creuset behind my back. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I have suggested inviting the reclusive Barclay brothers for dinner, but only if they dress as giant staplers.

Short Tony is stomping around in the chicken enclosure. “I’m getting my gun out if it carries on like this,” he warns. The chickens back off in alarm.

“How many did you get yesterday?” I ask.

“One. Just one.”

Something occurs to me. I give him a funny and askance look. We have an ‘every other day’ arrangement, by which I take the eggs on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, he takes the eggs on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and there is a free-for-all on Sundays. A grave and uncharitable thought is forming in my mind that Short Tony might just be pretending that his yield is down, in order to cover up the fact that he is swiping production on Days That He Is Not Allowed. I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

“Here you go,” I tell the chickens, setting down their Hummus salad, and immediately regretting my suspicious nature.

“We’ll see how it goes today,” I sigh. As I leave, I notice Short Tony looking at me in a funny and askance way. I haven’t a clue what that is all about. I collect the empty bowls, and take them in for the dishwasher.