It is the morning of the District Fanciers' Association Annual Poultry Show. Small Boy has been up since six thirty, pacing his room, memorising the names of all the special breeds on his chicken poster and waiting until he can legitimately wake us to take him into deepest, darkest Somerset to the village hall where he will show Titch, his Lavender Pekin.
A lot is riding on this day, and so far it has not started well. I have a tummy bug and Husband has a head cold. We would rather be in bed than standing in a cold village hall in the dark, but needs must.
At seven o'clock I stagger downstairs to help Small Boy retrieve his hen from the utility room where she has spent the night in the cage we used to put the dog in when she was a puppy. It is a cage big enough for a full-sized Labrador, so needless to say, the bantam Pekin looks somewhat lost in it. She does, however, look marvellously "poofy", which is our new adjective to describe quite how fluffed up her feathers become after a poultry-pampering session. However, as I lift her out of the cage and settle her in a cat box she tilts her head at me questioningly. She looks as doubtful as I feel about the day ahead of her.
Forty minutes later, I am only glad that this is a Poultry Show we are going to and not a Cat Show. Psycho Cat would have clawed her own eyeballs out after such a twisty-turny drive, but Titch is sitting demurely, not a feather out of place. This is more than can be said for me, as I am still feeling distinctly green about the gills, and have not enjoyed the thirty-point turn I had to perform to fit the Volvo into a parking space in the miniscule car park.
A huge number of people have already arrived with crates and crates of hens, cockerels and ducks. The hall itself is lined from floor to ceiling with metal cages stacked one on top of the other. There are mini hens, massive hens, cockerels the stature of your average Major-General with voices to match, and ducks of all shapes and sizes as well. One particularly neurotic duck seems to be convinced that it's being attacked by its own reflection and is savagely attacking the blurred image on the metal side of its cage, to the detriment of its oiled and polished beak. All the poultry, without exception, are stunningly attractive, brushed, fluffed and preened to within an inch of their lives.
The same cannot be said for the owners. I feel positively over-dressed in my Morning Face, jeans, jumper and un-brushed hair. I am glad I did not bother to set the alarm half an hour earlier to give myself time for makeup or matching socks.
I quickly forget that I am supposed to be marvelling at the beauty of the livestock and become more fascinated by the owners. I wonder what prizes I would award them.
Best Rare Breed, definitely, I think, as I notice a woman wearing an orange and brown jumper that is definitely handknitted and not in an On-Trend way.
Best True Weirdo.
Best Sour-Faced Trout Person.
Best Hard as Nails, Wouldn't Want to Meet You Down a Dark Alley Man.
They are amongst the weirdest and most unattractive bunch I have ever seen. And that is saying something from someone who has been to Crufts more than once and who knows more than she should about humans who take more pride in the appearance and health of their animals than they do in their own.
"So, can we go now?" I ask Small Boy, as I catch a particularly fruity waft of poultry poo that does nothing for the state of my stomach. (We are leaving Titch to be inspected and judged and coming back at 3pm for the prize-giving ceremony.)
"No," says Small Boy firmly. "Can't you see that everyone is giving their poultry a final grooming session? I must rub more Vaseline into Titch's beak and clean her feet again."
Somehow we get through the rest of the day, all of us slightly on edge at the thought of the tiny hen stuck in a cage, surrounded by noisy smelly neighbours awaiting her turn to be prodded and poked by potato-faced District Fanciers.
When Husband and Small Boy return at 3pm, I am bravely informed that Small Boy's Best Friend, William, cleaned up on the prizes.
"He got Best Bantam, Best Junior and Best Egg," he tells me. "But he did breed the bantam, and he did show eight hens."
"And what about Titch?" I ask.
Small Boy looks smaller than ever and says softly, "I asked why she didn't win anything, and they said she is Too Pale for a Show Bird."
I give him a hug and say, "Nevermind, she'll always be Best in Show to me. Just put it down to experience."
Small Boy brightens. "That's what I thought," he says. "Cos there's always next time, isn't there?"
"Next time?" I repeat nervously. I had hoped this poultry fancying was a one-off.
"Yes!" chirrups Small Boy. "There's another show in March. In Taunton! I've got the forms already . . ."
"Lovely dear," I say, through gritted teeth. "That's just - lovely."
A lot is riding on this day, and so far it has not started well. I have a tummy bug and Husband has a head cold. We would rather be in bed than standing in a cold village hall in the dark, but needs must.
At seven o'clock I stagger downstairs to help Small Boy retrieve his hen from the utility room where she has spent the night in the cage we used to put the dog in when she was a puppy. It is a cage big enough for a full-sized Labrador, so needless to say, the bantam Pekin looks somewhat lost in it. She does, however, look marvellously "poofy", which is our new adjective to describe quite how fluffed up her feathers become after a poultry-pampering session. However, as I lift her out of the cage and settle her in a cat box she tilts her head at me questioningly. She looks as doubtful as I feel about the day ahead of her.
Forty minutes later, I am only glad that this is a Poultry Show we are going to and not a Cat Show. Psycho Cat would have clawed her own eyeballs out after such a twisty-turny drive, but Titch is sitting demurely, not a feather out of place. This is more than can be said for me, as I am still feeling distinctly green about the gills, and have not enjoyed the thirty-point turn I had to perform to fit the Volvo into a parking space in the miniscule car park.
A huge number of people have already arrived with crates and crates of hens, cockerels and ducks. The hall itself is lined from floor to ceiling with metal cages stacked one on top of the other. There are mini hens, massive hens, cockerels the stature of your average Major-General with voices to match, and ducks of all shapes and sizes as well. One particularly neurotic duck seems to be convinced that it's being attacked by its own reflection and is savagely attacking the blurred image on the metal side of its cage, to the detriment of its oiled and polished beak. All the poultry, without exception, are stunningly attractive, brushed, fluffed and preened to within an inch of their lives.
The same cannot be said for the owners. I feel positively over-dressed in my Morning Face, jeans, jumper and un-brushed hair. I am glad I did not bother to set the alarm half an hour earlier to give myself time for makeup or matching socks.
I quickly forget that I am supposed to be marvelling at the beauty of the livestock and become more fascinated by the owners. I wonder what prizes I would award them.
Best Rare Breed, definitely, I think, as I notice a woman wearing an orange and brown jumper that is definitely handknitted and not in an On-Trend way.
Best True Weirdo.
Best Sour-Faced Trout Person.
Best Hard as Nails, Wouldn't Want to Meet You Down a Dark Alley Man.
They are amongst the weirdest and most unattractive bunch I have ever seen. And that is saying something from someone who has been to Crufts more than once and who knows more than she should about humans who take more pride in the appearance and health of their animals than they do in their own.
"So, can we go now?" I ask Small Boy, as I catch a particularly fruity waft of poultry poo that does nothing for the state of my stomach. (We are leaving Titch to be inspected and judged and coming back at 3pm for the prize-giving ceremony.)
"No," says Small Boy firmly. "Can't you see that everyone is giving their poultry a final grooming session? I must rub more Vaseline into Titch's beak and clean her feet again."
Somehow we get through the rest of the day, all of us slightly on edge at the thought of the tiny hen stuck in a cage, surrounded by noisy smelly neighbours awaiting her turn to be prodded and poked by potato-faced District Fanciers.
When Husband and Small Boy return at 3pm, I am bravely informed that Small Boy's Best Friend, William, cleaned up on the prizes.
"He got Best Bantam, Best Junior and Best Egg," he tells me. "But he did breed the bantam, and he did show eight hens."
"And what about Titch?" I ask.
Small Boy looks smaller than ever and says softly, "I asked why she didn't win anything, and they said she is Too Pale for a Show Bird."
I give him a hug and say, "Nevermind, she'll always be Best in Show to me. Just put it down to experience."
Small Boy brightens. "That's what I thought," he says. "Cos there's always next time, isn't there?"
"Next time?" I repeat nervously. I had hoped this poultry fancying was a one-off.
"Yes!" chirrups Small Boy. "There's another show in March. In Taunton! I've got the forms already . . ."
"Lovely dear," I say, through gritted teeth. "That's just - lovely."
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.