Taking a short break from final edits and unsubtle plugs for my book… I ventured into the garden. Something moved where there should have been no movement. My eyes focused through a wire fence to our algae and moss peppered greenhouse. The chickens were up to something. They had somehow (they have clipped wings, a mystery) got up onto the shelf where I was in the final stages of drying this season’s chilli crop on the vine and, well, gone mental. Clearly enraged that they were not able to eat the chillis themselves, they had ransacked the place, overturned the pots and then stumbled across my beautiful little citrus and kiwi plants. My lemons, oranges, kiwis and passion fruit saplings, all grown from supermarket-bought fruit seeds. Planted with my son in the kitchen in spring. The little ******* had stripped all the ones they could reach bare. They cannot protest serious hunger: they get the kilogram of porridge from the pot that we have failed to finish off each morning on top of their usual bloated diet of greens, corn, bread… They are overgrown, spoilt, fat ne’er-do-good feathered rats in my book this morning. The cockerels were mainly responsible as this photo shows and they don’t even lay eggs. I have asked the two cocks for a full written report on my desk by tomorrow morning or they may learn the lengths we go to to keep Mr. Fox at bay.