“My chickens have arrived!!!” exclaims Big A, from the other end of the telephone line, over the road.
I am pleased for him. His run has everything the modern chicken enthusiast could want – including a covered area, a bespoke constructed house and a letterbox – except some chickens. Now this gap has been filled, and he can join our international brotherhood. I give him my congratulations.
“What are they like?” I ask him.
A note of doubt creeps in to his voice. “Well – they look like chickens,” he ponders.
“I need some advice from the expert,” he continues. “What time should I be putting them to bed?”
I am an expert!!! The words resound with me resoundingly. I am so proud of my chickens: they have given me love, and eggs, and the status of an expert. And more eggs. I haven’t been the expert at anything for as long as I can remember. Truly these chickens have changed my life.
“Well I don’t let mine stay up too late,” I caution. “Except on Thursdays when they are allowed to watch ‘Heroes.'”
There is a bemused pause. I am not sure whether he knows that I am joking. They would not be interested in ‘Heroes’, or not the second series, anyway. That is the thing with being an expert – you have to watch what you say as people will take your word as law.
“I think one of them might have an egg stuck -” he begins.
“You’ll need to speak to Short Tony or Len the Fish,” I interrupt immediately.