I’ve changed hosts…

Posted on by Alex

Which seems to have gone worryingly smoothly, given that I’m running this thing myself now. But PHP is just ZX Basic with PR.

Please leave a comment if you encounter any problems, such as feeds not working, or being unable to leave comments etc.

Thank you to Gordon for recommending ‘A Small Orange’ hosting, who have been incredibly good, despite sounding ridiculous. It is his fault if anything breaks. I chose not to go with Hotpoint in the end.

There is a new ‘top commentators’ widget that tries to link back to you if you’re particularly active in the comments box, as a way of trying to get over the endless blogroll dilemma thing. We’ll see how it goes – if it gets clogged up with spam or whatever then I’ll take it off.

Testing, 123…

I clear my throat.

Posted on by Alex

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.

My portfolio is expanded.

Posted on by Alex

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.

I bemoan my lot with Short Tony.

Posted on by Alex

“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.