“A letter box?!?” I spit.
“I’ll show you,” offers Big A.
Big A’s new chicken run does, indeed, feature a letter box. I stare at it in some annoyance. He is being ridiculously competitive about his new run. It is not even as big as mine.
“I’ve concreted the posts into the ground,” he mentions casually.
I consider lying about our own post construction, but do not wish to descend to his level. “Some of this wood looks quite rotten,” I point out helpfully, as we return through the garden. He is careful to pull the reclaimed front door shut as he leaves the run.
I bolt off home to look through chicken books. If he is going to build a run with concreted in posts and a reclaimed front door, I am determined that we will have the better chickens. I quite fancy the Transylvanian Naked Necks myself, just because they sound exciting. Either that or an Old English Pheasant Fowl. I can quite see myself owning an Old English Pheasant Fowl, and taking it for walks.
Big A is getting some scraggy old ex-battery hens. My pedegree rare breeds will put them to shame, and it will serve him right. I will be careful not to let them mix, so mine do not get into bad habits. But they can write to each other if they like.