It is STILL the holidays. Small Boy's best friend and partner in crime, William, has been a regular fixture at our house this holiday. Their main project has been to construct a new chicken house out of an old chest of drawers and copious quantities of nails, with the aid of the entire contents of Husband's toolbox. I go out into the garden to find the two small boys, heads bent together in earnest chatter, fifteen million different types of screwdriver, hammer and drill-bit strewn about the lawn.
"What I think, is that it's obvious really, and it's that you need to make one of those doors which goes up and down," William is saying. "Coz that's what Adam Henson does on Countryfile, so it must be the best way to do it."
"Well, what I think, is that this is for my chickens and it's my garden and my dad's toolbox, so I am going to try my idea first," says Small Boy, somewhat tetchily.
I regard the rickety construction dubiously. The boys have placed one drawer on the ground, taken a second and upended it on the first to make a closed-up box. They have hammered hundreds of nails at random points all around the sides, but have not succeeded in bashing them all the way through the wood, so they are now whacking the nails flat against the edges "to smooth things off".
"I - er, I hesitate to say this," I begin.
"Yes?" Small Boy juts out his bottom jaw in challenge.
"Well, it's only that I'm not sure you've made this chicken house big enough for any of the chickens to fit inside," I say.
Small Boy draws himself up to his full height, hands on hips and yells, "Are you telling me that I have wasted MY WHOLE DAY MAKING THIS?" He sounds alarmingly like me.
"N-no, well, yes," I admit, backing away quickly. "Why don't you just finish off and then we can do a trial run with the Pekin? She's the smallest," I point out.
Small Boy grits his teeth dangerously. William puts a mollifying hand on his arm. "Let's finish the door which goes up and down first," he says.
Two hours later, the door which goes up and down is indeed going up and down with the aid of an unfeasibly long piece of string. Titch, the shivering Lavender Pekin, has been put inside the box, the door has been lowered and we are all assembled for the Grand Opening. Titch is making some very unusual and distinctly distressed noises from inside the new house.
"I now declare the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel well and truly open!" cries Small Boy, yanking the string which lifts the door and sends fifty-six jaggedy nails flying in all directions.
A small, terrified chicken emerges in the doorway to rapturous applause.
"And now, Titch on Film!" declares Small Boy, waving his iPod in my face.
He proceeds to show me a terribly moving clip of the tiny bird entering the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel with much over-enthusiastic pushing and shoving from two giggling small boys, set against a backing track of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep".
"Lovely," I say. "All we need now is Bill Nighy and Dame Judy Dench, and we could make a fortune out of this."
"Oooh! Enough to buy some more nails and chicken wire so William and me can finish the run to go with the hotel?" cries Small Boy.
"Just about enough for that, yes," I say wearily. "Just about enough."
"What I think, is that it's obvious really, and it's that you need to make one of those doors which goes up and down," William is saying. "Coz that's what Adam Henson does on Countryfile, so it must be the best way to do it."
"Well, what I think, is that this is for my chickens and it's my garden and my dad's toolbox, so I am going to try my idea first," says Small Boy, somewhat tetchily.
I regard the rickety construction dubiously. The boys have placed one drawer on the ground, taken a second and upended it on the first to make a closed-up box. They have hammered hundreds of nails at random points all around the sides, but have not succeeded in bashing them all the way through the wood, so they are now whacking the nails flat against the edges "to smooth things off".
"I - er, I hesitate to say this," I begin.
"Yes?" Small Boy juts out his bottom jaw in challenge.
"Well, it's only that I'm not sure you've made this chicken house big enough for any of the chickens to fit inside," I say.
Small Boy draws himself up to his full height, hands on hips and yells, "Are you telling me that I have wasted MY WHOLE DAY MAKING THIS?" He sounds alarmingly like me.
"N-no, well, yes," I admit, backing away quickly. "Why don't you just finish off and then we can do a trial run with the Pekin? She's the smallest," I point out.
Small Boy grits his teeth dangerously. William puts a mollifying hand on his arm. "Let's finish the door which goes up and down first," he says.
Two hours later, the door which goes up and down is indeed going up and down with the aid of an unfeasibly long piece of string. Titch, the shivering Lavender Pekin, has been put inside the box, the door has been lowered and we are all assembled for the Grand Opening. Titch is making some very unusual and distinctly distressed noises from inside the new house.
"I now declare the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel well and truly open!" cries Small Boy, yanking the string which lifts the door and sends fifty-six jaggedy nails flying in all directions.
A small, terrified chicken emerges in the doorway to rapturous applause.
"And now, Titch on Film!" declares Small Boy, waving his iPod in my face.
He proceeds to show me a terribly moving clip of the tiny bird entering the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel with much over-enthusiastic pushing and shoving from two giggling small boys, set against a backing track of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep".
"Lovely," I say. "All we need now is Bill Nighy and Dame Judy Dench, and we could make a fortune out of this."
"Oooh! Enough to buy some more nails and chicken wire so William and me can finish the run to go with the hotel?" cries Small Boy.
"Just about enough for that, yes," I say wearily. "Just about enough."
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