Wot you cookin’?

Ah. A wry smile for when a chicken is giving you the eye as you prepare a roast chicken lunch … hmmm.

She only has a little head. Surely her brain doesn’t think too much. I love our hens but I also cook chicken a lot. Is that weird? I often mutter an apology as I wander back from the freezer at the end of the garden with frozen chicken in hand. It only seems right to say something.

My daughter at university sent me a screenshot of a social media frenzy over some students who got cross that the cows named on a milk bottle, as the source of the milk, all had girls names. The offended students found that to be proof of misogyny.

I’m glad I don’t have to engage in this kind of conversation. I’d be totally useless and utterly lost.