I stare over the LTLP’s shoulder. They are clearly visible through the scullery window.
There is a dead, ominous silence, which I don’t understand, as she is shouting and screaming at them and banging the window.
“Get OFF the garden!!! PISS OFF!!! GET OFF MY PLANTS you little shitbags!!!”
Such language that chickens should never be forced to hear.
She turns to me. “I thought you said you did their wings or something?!?”
I shrug, confused.
No more is said. The LTLP does not care that I have hyperintelligent chickens with super powers. I will have to deal with them. I had been planning to make my big secret announcement, but now I will not have time to write a proper diary post about it. It is a shame, as I know people are bursting to know my news, and I have been religiously careful to not drop any hints as to its nature, spoil the surprise, let the chicken out of the bag, etc.
The LTLP storms off into the kitchen, brushing past me awkwardly in her new shapeless top and trousers with an odd bit that covers her tummy, whilst muttering something about needing a rest and something to eat but not unpasteurised soft cheese or paté.
I will have to make my big secret announcement on Monday.