of a specialty with my farming methods has turned out to be meaningful; chickens love weeds.
What pretty chickens... there are five in the yard but one may yet turn out to be unsuitable for laying eggs. They are hot and spend their days by their water trough - temps are in the 30°s and glorious, though the man at the huit à huit says rain tomorrow and at the weekend and hes normally right.
I'm playing at holidays and floating about waiting to see what happens next.
Last night in party mode at T-Rex (=Margaret, her extended and fab family, Mike and Hilary) a football came sailing over the wall and landed on the table nearest the station. Bosh! Mercifully there was only water on the table and the people there only got wet, but the Irish with us got all nostalgic and another table got alarmist about terrorism.
The place was crowded and they ran out of flour but MH trotted over the road to his home and got some. This morning the proprietor happened to be at the point propre at the same time as me - only he had a lot more bottles than I did - and was complaining about how tired he was. He kept us all late because he'd run out of stocks. Sympathy??
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