Playwright and dramaturg, author of a series of books and articles on education, ethnography, politics and ethical controversy clarified by Pirsigian philosophy, beginning with "Only Say The Word: Affirming Gay and Lesbian Love" and of the Bruno Benedetti series of mystery novels beginning with "Tricks of the Mind".
Mildred, you’ll be relieved to know, is holding her own in the back garden by hiding under bushes till Judy, Mabel, Henny-Penny and Amelia have clucked off (to dig up potatoes); emerging to peck around the feeder for food and to drink rainwater—of which there is a plentiful abundance on the West Coast of Scotland.
Judy (R) & Henny-Penny (L) doing quality control of the spuds they dug up
Chooks don’t like uncooked potatoes but they do like wee beasties: when they scratch around the potato patch after tasty treats, the spuds are in the way so they dig them up—and don’t replant them! Mildred is a bit fat to flutter up the sides of the raised bed and with the nasturtiums in there too the others tend to hang out there a lot.
Hens in the front garden
Meanwhile, in the front garden, the other five hens newly-liberated from battery cages have now all got names. The wee girl whose gramps live round the corner came round this morning with her grandma and we decided we’d first have to find a way to tell them apart.
Whereas Pipsqueak is easy to identify, having fewest feathers, especially around the rump and neck, Petunia (like her namesake Mrs Weasley fond of craning her neck to see what’s going on) is more similar to the rest.
Pipsqueak
However, we noticed that, with long and short tails, and more or less floppy combs, we could distinguish them. So, designating Petunia as the one with the floppy comb and short tail, and already knowing that Pipsqueak has the fewest feathers, with Mildred now in the back garden that only left 3 hens to name.
Petunia
The wee girl, unaided by Grandma, decided that the name of the hen with a less floppy comb and short tail was Daisy. I heartily approved. Especially as I felt sure Daisy would like to eat them.
Daisy
So now we had the two long-tailed hens, distinguished by their combs: floppy or not. Floppy-combed Meela and less floppy Jessica received their names without ceremony but I picked up Daisy after Grandma said it was really time to go to the Safari Park and, after Daisy was duly patted and released, off my nice neighbours went, with thanks.
Meela
I do feel it’s important for a flock to have a mixture of traditional and up-to-date names. So I enjoyed this modern touch and am content that I have hens that are not only very Zen but also trendy!
Jessica
(Photos & videos copyright the author may be used—unconnected to commerce and without transformation—with a link to this blogpost)
“It’s my birthday and I can rescue hens if I want to” was my prepared excuse if any family members noticed the new coop and run that had sprung up overnight. Neither that day nor the British Hen Welfare Trust adoption day was actually my birthday but I thought it was near enough to try some emotional blackmail.
Decide definitely whether to go ahead with this madness or not
Book the hens to be adopted and pay the fee (adding a donation to the cause)
Hope for the best and buy a hen coop
Pick up a new feeder & water dispenser
Assemble the coop
Keep the family in the dark till it’s too late to object (not what I did the first time and not recommended!)
Acquire 2 or 3 big cardboard boxes
Assemble the boxes, line with wood shavings and straw—then them hide in the car
Go get the hens!
I was lucky enough to find wooden coops for sale nearby and had a lovely chat with the carpenter at his workshop about dogs, hens, coops, his home country and my painful attempts at speaking German. It almost fitted together perfectly and I think the “almost” was due to it getting dark, me getting tired and a midgie biting the same eyelid that got stung by a wasp a month ago! However, apart from the litter tray being slightly stiff to move (there’s good access from a door in the front of the coop and through the nesting box, and it does go in and out, so it’s not an issue) the coop does exactly what I wanted.
This time—avian flu hysteria over—I was able to get out of the car to talk to the lovely volunteers and could see others in the pen with the hens running around indignant at being taken out of their cages without prior warning and then being grabbed (very gently and lovingly) and put into a cardboard box! At first sight I thought they were a different breed from the Red Star hybrids I have at home. But, when I got them home, I realised the distinctive white plumage wasn’t from their large outer feather (few and fairly bare) but from the inner layer of down—and even that was missing in large patches.
Red Star chicken with sparse plumage dimly seen through blond wood & wire window of hen coop
So, at the moment, I’m not sure if they’re the same hybrid breed as my other 4 or not. Last time the days were shorter (daylight hours vary a lot at this latitude as we’re farther north than Moscow) and I’d picked them up later so—assured they’d been fed and watered—I’d just placed the boxes into the coop and only opened them up the next morning. The BHWT advise cutting a ventilation slot in each side and all good coops are well ventilated so there was no danger of suffocation. This time I was earlier and wanted to give them the opportunity to put their claws and beaks into green grass for the first time.
So, after I placed them gently onto the straw covering wood shavings inside the raised coop, I opened the door to the ramp leading down to the grass beneath—and their food and water.
No movement through open door to coop at top of the ramp—seen through wire of pen.
At first, nothing. My Mum can be heard asking “so how do they know how to get out?” Good question. They don’t, but chickens are curious and will look for food and water. Finally, Petunia (who had already shown her nosiness by sticking her head out of the box before she’d even got to the car) braved the ramp.
Like all these ex-battery hens, her comb is pale pink rather than the ruddy red of a healthy bird and Petunia’s hangs over at a rakish angle. She’s also not Mildred, the big timid bird with most of her tawny plumage intact, so hopefully I can identify her tomorrow.
Mildred in the foreground and a more bedraggled hen close behind her inside the coop
3 more bedraggled hens hiding in the far corner of the coop
Four others agreed with Mildred that discretion is the better part of valour and stayed safely inside, for quite a while. I worried that they might be dehydrated so I placed a bowl of water inside there along with some cooked potato. The bowl was on its side and the potato untouched an hour later so I removed the bowl, chucked the wet straw and potato down the ramp and hoped the chooks would follow. Eventually, they did.
4 hens pecking the cage wire, the grass, the feeder and their water dispenser
Hens peck the way a dog sniffs; it seems to be their default method of enquiry. If it moves, peck it; if it doesn’t, peck it and maybe it will. By trial and error, these four found out it’s better to peck grass than cage wire. Of course the lid didn’t stay on the feeder for long and neither did the water dispenser remain upright. I replaced both, refilling the latter and adjusting the wire that neither I nor the lady in the shop had understood in terms of function (it holds the bottle upright).
Finally, just as it was getting to that twilight time that in Scotland we call “the gloaming”, Mildred—walking like an opera singer in tight shoes—and her shy companion ventured down the ramp.
Mildred, Petunia & 2 companions peck about the pen & drink water
I let them peck about until I realised that none of the six, drawn down the ramp by a combination of hunger, thirst and curiosity, had made the connection between security and going back up it. They seemed to be settling down for a slumber party on the grass when I opened the pen gate and (rather abruptly) persuaded some of them back up the ramp and just grabbed the others and shoved them through the door. The process was quite undignified but, with the coop door and pen gate both closed, they were snug and safe for the night.
I may not be able to put the fencing up around the lawn in front of their coop until the day after tomorrow. Hopefully they won’t be too vigorous in establishing their pecking order by then. I’m thinking that I may relocate Mildred (as she’s big and fully feathered) so there’s 5 in each flock—or maybe give her to a kind neighbour who’s just lost one of hers—but it might be best to leave her to settle in for a few days at least.
The new hens (and the old) spent a quiet night and four came down the ramp—which I levelled a bit with an upturned plastic ice cream carton—fairly early. One of the 4 as yet unnamed hens (informally known as Miss Nasty) is taking it upon herself to peck everyone within reach. Establishing normal social relations is a good sign. They’re slowly getting over the shell-shock of battery cage hell followed by rehoming.
Mildred & companions in the pen with the triangular key to open the coop door at the top of the ramp
The wee girl whose grandparents live round the corner is coming round with her friends and her Mum this afternoon to name the new hens so, apart from Mildred and Petunia, the nicknames are temporary. So, when I tell you that Pipsqueak (smallest, shyest and most battered-looking, who’s spent most of the past 20 hours squeezing herself tightly into the far corner of the nesting box) laid the first egg, I think you’ll agree that’s another good sign.
Small brown egg in my hand in front of coop with hens pecking about.
(Photos & videos copyright the author may be used—unconnected to commerce and without transformation—with a link to this blogpost)
As a Law student studying the LLB degree with the Open University in the United Kingdom, I thought my classmates may be interested in my experience as a ‘party litigant’ or ‘litigant-in-person’, in other words taking legal action in a civil (not criminal) case without a lawyer. Because it concerns the law, which can be technical, I’ll have to use some legal jargon in this envisaged series of blogposts but I’ll explain as I go along.
The first question for a party litigant (I’ll use that phrase because it’s the shortest one) is:
Do you really want to do this?
It’s a tremendous investment in time and energy, a rollercoaster of emotions – fear, anger, frustration and exhaustion – but there is also exhilaration. It feels like building your own house. I’ve never done that (my DIY construction projects are limited to a couple of fairly robust compost heaps and a rather shoogily cold frame that produced tiny, sweet strawberries for a few years and is now falling apart) but I imagine that at some point right at the beginning you have to start looking up Planning Law and Plumbing.
There are two alternatives: hire a lawyer or don’t do it at all – and both of them are worth considering:
Hire a lawyer
Clearly, with a lawyer you get legal expertise, the other party will take you more seriously, there’s no danger of missing deadlines or not fulfilling judicial orders (instructions from a judge). In my imagination, because I’m not doing that, it must be like wanting to get from A to B in unknown territory and hiring a chauffeur who knows where to go and how to get there, safely and effectively.
So, to be honest, that’s the strategy that I’d usually recommend – I think it would be a bit irresponsible not to. A key consideration about hiring a lawyer is money.
There is the possibility of a “no win no fee” arrangement, but I believe you have to read the small print on those (that’s always a good idea anyway).
Another possibility, if you can’t fund it for yourself, is crowdfunding. That involves going public with the facts of the case, convincing people that your motivations are just and the cause worth supporting, providing updates as the case progresses – and steering clear of the laws of slander (spoken insults) and libel (printed insults, basically).
Don’t do it at all
Reading or hearing about the experiences of people who have brought a civil case may convince you that it’s just not worth it in terms of time, money, and stress. My advice, is to ask yourself whether the negative impact on your life would be worse if you did nothing, or not. In other words, could you live with that? Life is full of injustice and we don’t have to remedy every single wrong. Especially if you have an obsessive personality, it may be a difficult experience for you to get involved with legal action at all. It’s detailed, messy, and it takes a long time – so you may decide that life is just too short. Maybe your employer hasn’t treated you fairly but, hey ho, life goes on and there’s another opportunity just round the corner. This is an option you should definitely consider, seriously.
Do it yourself
So, I want to make it clear that I am very definitely not recommending this option. There are special circumstances in my case that have made this option more attractive to me – but even if you have similar circumstances to me that doesn’t mean that you should necessarily do the same thing.
Firstly, I’m a law student. Before starting the LLB, I studied almost every free Law module on the OpenLearn programme (there are three legal jurisdictions in the United Kingdom: England and Wales; Scotland; and Northern Ireland and the free modules mention all of them). I also paid attention to the compulsory HR courses, many of which have legal content, that had to do as a staff member of the Scottish institute of higher learning at which I was employed. I’m studying part-time; so far I’ve done Public Law (very pleased to get a Distinction in that) I’m waiting for the results of my Business and Employment Law module and next term it’s Contract Law – which is useful, because I began this legal action at the end of last year and the full hearing is scheduled for early December.
Additionally, I’m a proofreader, used to close reading, scanning and skimming complex documents; I have a Ph.D. and several other degrees; I’m a linguist who speaks a few Latin languages and Roman Catholic, so was brought up with a smattering of Church Latin; and I also happen to have a good friend who not only worked in training and recruitment for a huge company for years but successfully took them to court (not by himself, he hired lawyers) and is currently studying a Masters in HR. Those are pretty specific circumstances.
Finally, I’m the Chairman of a small but very feisty political party and actively involved in the freedom movement. One of the reasons why I decided to do this is to demonstrate – with all these caveats – that it’s possible for someone who is not a lawyer to bring a case to justice and to be taken seriously.
Luck of the draw
All of the above may sound as though Law is a rational discourse, governed by rules and reliable procedures. To some extent, I think that’s true but there’s also a good deal of creative narrative (sometimes very creative indeed) as well as plain luck – and I’ve heard employment judges say the same. In their very guarded manner, of course.
A chap I know – because our dogs play together when we’re out for walks – told me that he went along to an Employment Tribunal, just filled out the forms in the corridor outside, and won his case. I think he had help from Citizens Advice, which is another option, and there are several similar paralegal organisations – I mean that they have staff who may not be lawyers but they do have a certain amount of legal training. Another guy I know, in England, is putting tremendous amount of effort into his case and is really struggling.
My experience of the staff of the Employment Tribunal is that they are polite, indeed gracious, and have a real commitment to access to justice (a similar phrase is “levelling up”) meaning that anyone should be enabled to come to law, no matter who they are. This has most definitely been my experience of the judges, I’m happy to report, however it’s only natural for them to feel more affinity with the lawyers on the other side. There was one occasion when the judge said something in error – I know, because I looked it up afterwards – and opposing Counsel (the employer’s lawyers) kept quiet. So, you’ve got to watch them!
That’s it for this first part. Next time, I want to speak about ACAS and starting a claim.
Polls are open for three UK Parliamentary elections, in Selby & Ainsty (13 candidates), Somerton & Frome (8 candidates) and Uxbridge & South Ruislip (17 candidates). I’m not able to vote in any of them. However, I can give a personal opinion about who I would vote for, if I had the chance.
How would I make that decision?
In the local council election, I’m swayed more by the person than the party but in a Parliamentary I’d simply discount candidates right at the start if I strongly opposed the party’s policy. Therefore, without even looking at any of the candidates, I’d immediately discount everyone from a major party.
Of these, I’d then discount any candidate without a photograph or some kind of statement. Who Can I Vote For? is a well-known website that people do look up, intentionally or by accident simply by searching with the phrase, and not having a photo or text indicates that the candidate is either lazy, disorganised or uninformed. You don’t want anyone like that in office, so they wouldn’t get my vote. That leaves 4, two Independents and one each from the Yorkshire and Social Democratic parties. Now I’d look at the candidate’s statements.
The first independent advocates decision-making by “ethical AI”. No. Hopelessly naïve and anti-human.
The Yorkshire Party candidate looks interesting. I don’t know anything about geothermal energy but wind and solar, unfortunately, seem to promise more than they divide and both have a negative impact on the environment. However, apart from that, this experienced counsellor makes good suggestions including using brownfield sites for housing.
The next Independent is against political tribalism but doesn’t state what he’s for.
The SDP man is also local, has organisational experience and make some good points.
So, in Selby & Ainsty, I’d probably vote for either Mike Jordan of the Yorkshire Party or John William Waterson of the SDP.
In Somerton & Frome, the same process (skipping the step of deleting those without a photo or text) leaves 4 candidates:
The CPP candidate has lots about her own experience, which is very good, but the only policy she explicitly advocates is building on brownfield not farmland. That’s good but my questions would be: what else does she advocate and is this all about her?
The Reform man has a concise statement, with good points about energy and supporting small businesses, and is himself a businessman.
The only Independent is a strong socialist and, in the words of Miss Jean Brodie, “for those that like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like”. She makes much of her independence from party politics and being a woman of the people. She clearly has laudable aims, with some attempt to justify and budget for them. Her photo being out of date is not a good sign, and neither is the nose piercing nor the messianic poem on her FB page. People don’t need a messiah in Parliament they need someone sensible who’ll represent them.
The UKIP Candidate is at the opposite end of the political spectrum, has a military background and clear policies on immigration, housing, freedom of movement and support for small businesses. A strong contender.
With some misgivings about all of them, there are aspects of all three parties that I’m not completely in favour of (and none of them, I think, opposed lockdown or vaccine mandates) and the independent seems a bit naïve, all four candidates have a lot in their favour. The deciding question is about values: which of these represents yours, best?
In Somerton & Frome, I’d probably be swayed by Bruce David Evans’ age (against the UKIP candidate) and his concise, clear statement and experience, against the others.
Lasts but not least, in Uxbridge & South Ruislip, there are 9 candidates with photos and text on WCIVF:
Kingsley Hamilton Anti-Ulez
Independent
Statement
Photo
Cameron Swaran Bell
Independent
Statement
Photo
Piers Corbyn
Let London Live
Statement
Photo
Laurence Fox
The Reclaim Party
Statement
Photo
Steve Gardner
SDP
Statement
Photo
Rebecca Jane
UKIP
Statement
Photo
77 Joseph
Independent
Statement
Photo
Enomfon Udoka Ntefon
Christian Peoples Alliance
Statement
Photo
No Ulez Leo Phaure
Independent
Statement
Photo
Now, having some awake candidates means that my choice would narrow to them. Setting the awake bar fairly low (anti-ULEZ, etc.) there are 5:
It is unclear whether the first independent, Kingsley Hamilton, is local and he seems to be single-issue and, like the second, would probably do better in a council election. The second, Leo Phaure, is definitely local and I think his man of the people style, business experience and “trust a neighbour” app idea is interesting. He is not a single issue politician but it does take quite a bit of work to get the points in his manifesto as his Facebook page relies heavily on videos. Candidates need a written text with points that people can skim read. Like the other Independent, he is also good looking and a family man, those are advantages.
Neither Piers Corbyn nor Laurence Fox have the above advantages of Kingsley Hamilton, and someone has attempted to sabotage their campaigns by adding in a Wikipedia reference. However they are very clearly awake on a range of issues and both have an extremely high profile. Notably, there is suspicion in the freedom movement concerning both of them. So very close to the establishment, are they controlled opposition?
Rebecca Jane’s photo is extremely glamorous, which may or may not go in her favour. She also alludes to a spat with another standing “centre right party” candidate. Like Fox and Corbyn she’s awake on more than one issue but the freedom movement will probably choose them over UKIP – for reasons mentioned above.
So, in Uxbridge & South Ruislip, if awake voters stifle their concerns, they’d probably choose Corbyn over Fox as the former has longer and clearer commitment to their cause. If not, they’d go for Jane. To be honest, if I was voting there today, I’d try to have a conversation with Leo Phaure about vaccine mandates and lockdown and – if he showed signs of waking up – he’d get my vote. If not, reluctantly, I’d vote for Fox. I don’t trust him, for all the reasons that Miri Finch of Informed Consent Matters has detailed on her blog, but we do need someone at least raising points in Parliament and – although he hasn’t used his platform to lift up anyone else – the one MP who can claim to be part of the freedom movement has indeed done that.
Cartoon image 2 hands post ballot papers into a ballot box
Thanks to Mohamed Mahmoud Hassan who has released his image Vote ,voting , Voting Ballot, Box into the Public Domain.
If you know me as the Chairman of Freedom Alliance, you may be surprised at the title of this blogpost; if you know me well, you won’t be. Yes, as I said last night on her Telegram channel, Rachel Speaks Out, we have had our differences in the past but—especially as someone actively involved in small party politics and the wider freedom movement, as well as a student of law—I can’t support or stay silent about a malicious attack on democracy.
Lynn Irving, another co-founder of the LOVE party (which has decided for the time being not to register with the Electoral Commission as a political party) yesterday shared a letter to Rachel from the police inviting her for an interview regarding two accusations:
using the words “presented by” rather than “promoted by” in her campaign imprint.
using the name Rachel Elnaugh-Love on her nomination forms (and this on the ballot paper) when it is not the name by which she is commonly known.
Rachel is accused of violating the Representation of the People Act 1983 s.110 and s.65(a)1. (The letter gives the title of that Act twice, both times inexactly.) Let’s look at those provisions:
Firstly, there are 14 subsections (with numerous sub-subsections, and some sub-sub-subsections) in section 110, which has been amended twice and modified nine times. Nowhere in this incredibly convoluted text is a stipulation that the words “promoted by” must appear on campaign literature. It does not even state that the promoter must be identified. The relevant provision is s.110(7)a:
(7) The Secretary of State may, after consulting the Electoral Commission, by regulations make provision for and in connection with the imposition of requirements as to the inclusion in material falling within subsection (2)(b) above of the following details, namely—
(a) the name and address of the promoter of the material; and
So it’s up to the accuser, and the police, to verify that the Secretary of State has done so—and for them to check such regulations to see if any of those regulations have been violated. Because the Act itself has not. In other words, this is not only a malicious accusation, it’s also lazy. The accuser has not done his or her homework!
Throughout the UK, printed election campaign material must include the name and address of:
the printer
the promoter
who it’s being promoted for (for example, the candidate or party)
However, again, nowhere does it state that the words “promoted by” must appear on campaign literature. The legal requirement is for the name and address of the printer and promoter. So, if it’s clear who and what those are, with any form of wording, the imprint is legal.
The second accusation appears to regard s.65(a)1a of the above Act:
65A False statements in nomination papers etc.
(1) A person is guilty of a corrupt practice if, in the case of any relevant election, he causes or permits to be included in a document delivered or otherwise furnished to a returning officer for use in connection with the election—
(a) a statement of the name or home address of a candidate at the election which he knows to be false in any particular; or
The key word here is “false”. The accusation is that Rachel is not commonly known as “Rachel Elnaugh-Love”—but the relevant provision does not contain or define the term “commonly known” and “false…in any particular” is very broad and ambiguous.
Let’s stop and think about naming. Imagine that a certain human being is known by one or more of the following appellations, to different people in different circumstances:
Stan
Stanley
Stan the Man
Stanski
Old Stan
Stanley-boy
Bunter
Billy Bunter
Boris
BJ
Bojo
Boris Johnson
Stanley Johnson
Stan Johnson
S. Johnson
B. Johnson
Mr S. Johnson
Stanley Johnson Esq.
Prime Minister
Former Prime Minister
The Right Hon. Boris Johnson
The Right Honourable Boris Johnson
That Bastard
Daddy
Darling
Honey pops
Mr Bear
(I could go on, ad nauseam, but you’re probably already nauseated.) Insofar as each appellation clearly refers to the same human being, none of them could be held to be false. Rachel, Rach, Ms Elnaugh, Mrs R. Elnaugh, Rachel Elnaugh, that woman off Dragon’s Den, the Claimant, the Respondent, the Accused, Mummy, Sis, that nice lady over there, Rachel Elnaugh-Love, etc.—all these appellations may clearly identify the same human being, depending on the circumstances.
In the circumstances of a local election, Rachel, who has a very high profile, not only provided her full name and party name but her face appeared on leaflets, she was on various talk shows and was already a TV celebrity. So there was no doubt about the identity of the candidate.
It happens from time to time that a literal interpretation of a statutory provision is difficult as it is vague in application or yields an absurdity and this may be remedied by Judicial interpretation in 3 common ways: the Golden Rule (the narrow application determines the meaning of an ambiguous word or phrase, while the broad application rejects the wording as absurd—this rule does not remedy unfairness only absurdity); the Mischief Rule (“what mischief is this provision designed to prevent?”); and the Purposive Approach (“what is the purpose of this provision?”).
Taking these in turn: it is absurd to claim that “Rachel Elnaugh-Love” is a false name whereas “Count Binface” (who typically appears at the count with his whole head covered by a small steel dustbin) is not.
The mischief prevented by this provision is that of falsely impersonating someone (else). So, if I claimed to be “Rachel Elnaugh” on my nomination papers, I would be guilty of that charge (one wonders where this leaves trans-identified persons who have not changed their name by deed poll and are just starting their social transition) but Rachel was not claiming to be someone else.
The purpose of the provision is to identify someone clearly. Rachel has done that and, in the interests of democratic transparency, has indicated her affiliation to a group while standing as an independent candidate. She should not be punished for being candid with voters.
This is a malicious and lazy accusation by someone with limited knowledge of electoral law, and judicial interpretation, and no understanding or respect for democracy. The police would do well to ignore it, unless they enjoy being laughed out of court.
As for Rachel, my advice is that at the end of Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull:
“Keepworkingonlove.”
3 female co-founders of the LOVE party smiling with hands up holding a sign with their lotus logo in front of a high hedge.
My four rescued hens have been with me for over four months now and I’ve written about their established pecking order before. In the five minute video at the end, it’s very clear who’s who:
Judy (the fat one) just eats because hardly anyone ever challenges her.
Mabel (the one with a small squinty feather in her tail) pecks Henny-Penny.
Henny-Penny (the long-tailed one) spends as much time trying to eat as she does trying to make sure Amelia doesn’t.
Amelia (the darkest one) scurries around, grabs crumbs where she can and eventually makes off through the garden gate with a large piece of pizza.
I recorded ten minutes but can only upload five. Before is me calling “chookies!” to get Amelia to join us in the close where I thrown down the slice of pizza and after is her successfully scarpering with a piece of it.
The chooks have gone from arriving in two straw-lined cardboard boxes to being cooped up for hours then set free to roam their pen, to finally getting the run of the entire garden. In that time their plumage has regrown, though Mabel’s undercarriage is still a bit bare and only Henny-Penny has long tail feathers so there’s more of that to do. They’ve also fattened up (we don’t eat them only their eggs) and are much more trusting of me and more used to being stroked and picked up.
4 hens on a close-pecked lawn beside a wooden raised coop with plastic feeder underneath and bushes and hedges behind
I’ve learned a few things in these months. Firstly to interpret their cries:
Drama squawk—something’s wrong (usually I only hear this when Amelia has laid an egg and for some reason feels she has to run about the garden announcing this)
Hurry up squawk—every morning before I open the door to the ramp down from their wooden coop
Contented cluck—default mode when rooting around the grass or soil
Happy cluck—heard from inside the nesting box especially when Mabel is alone in there taking her own good time to lay an egg and sitting on everyone else’s
Hungry squawk—similar to the hurry up squawk but not as urgent. More of a hopefully milling around the back door at breakfast and dinner time in hope of a plate coming out with leftovers.
Legally, apparently (I haven’t looked it up) only vegan households can feed their hens leftovers. So I imagine that every hen keeper is vegan then. Officially. Food is a huge issue for hens as they spend most of their awake time acquiring it. I’ve learned the wisdom of placing food either on a raised shelf—where they tend to stretch their necks up to peck at it rather than stand on it—or in a basket hanging at their eye level. This is because while other animals understand not to sh *t where they eat, hens never got that memo.
The solution to dealing with this is to either put it into a plant pot with the aid of a stick (useful for those early morning huge creamy lumps) or to sweep dirt over it, if it’s smaller and on the path, and that way it’s easier to sweep away towards the compost heap. As it dries fairly quickly, I even just sweep it off the lawn onto the dirt of the borders and the hedges.
Chicken manure (let’s call it that) is highly valued by gardeners. It seems it’s a bit strong if applied directly to plants but, as it tends to get mixed up in their straw or wood shavings bedding, it can be laid near plants without touching their stalks and the rain takes the nutrients down to the roots.
So the potatoes, grown among heavily manured compost have gone absolutely mad! They were, admittedly, under plastic (from the old greenhouse) for months to stop the hens eating the shoots but now that raised bed is open to the elements and the strawberries and nasturtiums that have survived the slugs are doing well.
Hens love slugs and snails and even eat the latter’s shell. They love scratching the soil up with oblique strokes of their big claws while reversing to get a good peck around. Any worms, flies or creepy-crawlies they can get they love eating them!
They need calcium to construct their own egg shells. Occasionally either Mabel (big light-coloured eggs) or Henny-Penny (smaller, elegantly oval eggs, also light-coloured) will lay a thin-shelled egg, very occasionally so thin it breaks and (this was sad to watch) once even being laid broken.
I bought two bags of feed from the farmer who sold me the flat pack coop but now I’ve switched to another type which is apparently better. I notice an improvement in their eggshell thickness when they get green leaves in their diet so as well as kohlrabi and cauliflower leaves from the local organic grocers I also give them fresh cut grass and sometimes herd or carry one or two into the front garden—with wheelie bins and Ben the dog blocking exits to the neighbours’ garden and the pavement—to eat the grass and dandelion leaves there. That’s a bit stressful as there are lots of foxgloves which they absolutely must not eat (digitalis can be fatal) and they can be difficult to grab for the return trip!
They L.O.V.E. lettuce and, though they can just tear it up themselves, it’s easier for them if you hold the stalk and they can peck a beakful out of the leaf. What’s great fun for them is when you roll a whole iceberg lettuce down the path onto the back lawn and let them run after it in excitement, tear it to bits and gobble it all up!
In these four months I’ve relocated and finally sailed my Mirror dinghy (bought five years ago and only rowed and repaired since) on a loch easily accessible by train; I’ve published the last of the Bruno Benedetti Mystery series; and I’ve taken my former employer to court for wrongful, unfair and automatically unfair dismissal (after whistleblowing) as well as various forms of direct, indirect, and by association, discrimination, and harassment. I’ve also completed my first year of my PT law degree with the Open University and got in my tax return six months before deadline. This is on top of being a carer and proofreader. Now I’ve picked up my book on political philosophy and hope to publish it by Christmas.
Hens make you get up early (currently 7am; they’d be happier with 6am but Mr Fox might still be sneaking around then) and, once you have the fresh dewy morning air on your face, it’s easier to stay up and that means some time in the early morning to think clearly. The physical work of mucking out the coop and turning and spreading compost is good for the body—and giving away eggs is good neighbourliness and much appreciated. My family love the hens, Ben (as long as he’s well-fed, well-patted and well-assured of his special place in the family) tolerates them and visitors, from window cleaners to social workers find them charming. Hens are good for you. They improve your life when you save theirs.
Enjoy the video and if you’re inspired to rescue hens (Judy, Mabel, Henny-Penny and Amelia would have ended up as plastic-wrapped frozen carcasses if I hadn’t provided sanctuary) please contact the British Hen Welfare Trust.
5 minute video of 4 hens pecking at pizza (and sometimes each other) in a concrete closed passageway between terraced houses
“Press Night”, as the preview of a performance used to be called, is a special occasion. A dress and technical rehearsal in front of a paying audience, there might be some lack of polish but everything is fresh, including the actors.
I wasn’t sure about this production. The poster put me off, to be honest. I know this company can produce some spectacular drama but I’ve also seen some where ideology takes over the story. It’s unfair of me, I know, to suspect the latter when I see male parts played by female actors—especially in Shakespeare—but it all seemed to be about “Antonia” and I wasn’t convinced.
Until I heard the raucous shouts—and plebs ran into the audience acclaiming Caesar as if he’d just turned up in Easterhouse. I loved this production from that moment on.
No, it wasn’t perfect. Cassia did command the stage but her voice was at the uncomfortable end of audibility and at that volume the amateur instruction not to turn your back on the audience (or even stand perpendicular) when conducting a conversation of any length should be followed. There were a very few dramatic pauses that perhaps went on too long (lines?) and I wasn’t sure about the guns. I’ll come back to that.
This is one of the most famous plays in the English-speaking world. I suspect that many of tonight’s audience could recite speeches from it by heart. So to make it so fresh is quite an achievement. When the NEDs ran among us, their enthusiasm for their idol was infectious. “Salve Caesar!” became a football slogan. Then there was all the fun of clambering over the barrier, a pitch invasion.
At the beginning, the groomed, boring, office elegance of the patrician senators (stalking about the stage in suits and trouser suits, attended by anxious PR people clutching clipboards) transported me to the recent election campaign in Bellshill where MSPs and members of a certain newsworthy party did exactly that. Tie pins and block heels and handshakes. In that context, especially in light of other recent events, Caesar’s beloved dictatorship took on a very contemporary hue.
Antonia’s diminutive stature, physical and metaphorical (as everyone was overshadowed by the superbly confident Caesar) lasted just until she, meekly, stood at the podium and—after Brutus and Cassia exited—gave it laldy. I have never heard anyone recite Friends, Romans, Countrymen so movingly and the well-timed heckling, as the plebs were again amongst us, brought those interactive lines alive. I think the Bard (the English one) would have loved it!
Cassia grew more powerful as she lost control and Brutus was stability, caution and virtue throughout. The very Scotch seer was worthy of note, grim, down-to-earth yet uncanny; as was the very plausible Portia, complaining of her husband preferring the noxious vapours of night to their cosy bed. This was a very Roman production.
The supporting parts supported and didn’t try to take over, always a virtue. I didn’t like the guns at the end because I think when you construct a world you have to play by the rules and—if one side had guns, why did the other only have daggers? The camo I could deal with, it was the amo that bothered me.
Apart from the blocking that occasionally muffled female voices, slightly, that was the only directorial decision that I didn’t like. One problem, usually solved by stage-management, was how to get Caesar’s dead body offstage. It was solved in such an elegant, easy and obvious way, a cinematic solution, that everyone in the audience gasped at the sight. I loved it.
I also liked the simple set, the mood music and the happy coincidence that when the characters complained of omens and the darkening clouds, the ones above us were raining on us, gently.
Dark deeds, fair thoughts and happy hours. Who could wish for more from the theatre?
Angry brunette clutching smoke bomb with Palestinian scarf & SPQR tattooed on her cheek, Julius Caesar By William Shakespeare 21st June – 8th July
Bard in the Botanics’ summer season (comprising JULIUS CAESAR, HENRY IV, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST, and JEKYLL & HYDE) runs until the 29th July 2023. Image from website. Details and tickets HERE.
If you say you’re a real woman and I say you’re not, who’s right – and how do we know? What’s ‘real’? Is reality defined by whoever shouts the loudest?
I wrote a book about another shouty debate where most people aren’t listening to each other as it’s manifestly clear to them that the other side is evil and dead wrong: abortion. (It struck me that people with completely different views on pregnancy will never agree on the rights and wrongs of ending it.)
Philosophers try to define terms at the start of a debate but, if they can’t agree on what words should mean, at least they can understand what people do mean when they use them.
So let’s invent two people talking: ‘Henry’ and ‘Henrietta’. When Henry uses the word ‘woman’, he means the kind of ‘adult human female’ that Henrietta would call ‘cisgender’ or ‘assigned female at birth’; when Henrietta uses the word ‘woman’, she means someone who claims to be one.
So, when Henry says ‘transwomen are not women’, Henrietta could translate that into her understanding that ‘trans women are not cis women’ or even ‘not all women are cis’ – rather than taking offence and calling the cops. And when Henrietta says the opposite, Henry could translate and understand that statement as ‘transwomen are trans women’. Understanding (but not agreeing with) each other’s terms, they might then go on to have a calm and sensible debate about how to balance the protection of the mental and physical welfare of both groups – especially in situations where they may conflict. Again, they may not agree, but they would understand each other better – and no-one would get arrested or harassed online or in person.
What’s also difficult about this debate is that it involves an academic discipline that most people (even academics) either dismiss as outdated or have never heard of. If you want to be taken seriously, call it ‘ontology’; if not, it’s ‘metaphysics’. Same thing. It’s about what’s real and the validity of claims to reality.
So, to think more about the validity of the claim to be ‘a real woman’, Henry and Henrietta could see if they agree on what it means to be, say, Scottish. Or White. Or middle-aged. Or a doctor. (I’m using things that I claim to be.) In statistics, descriptors like these are called ‘variables’ – some ‘category variables’, as they describe different things, and some ‘ordinal variables’, as they refer to a point on a scale or spectrum.
Henry and Henrietta might disagree on the meaning of ‘doctor’; only MD or also PhD? And, aren’t ‘White’ people really pink, isn’t middle-aged more old than young, and do you have to be born in Scotland to be Scottish or does one parent count – and what if you just move here and for how long and what if you then leave?
My point is that there’s lots of debate about descriptors and categories and identity. Having this debate, Henry might admit that identity is debatable and Henrietta might realise that (apart from transgender activists) no-one would expect claims to identity to be taken seriously based on nothing more than ‘this is what I say I am’. That kind of disconnection from social recognition (like Uncle Teddy in Arsenic and Old Lace who claims to be Theodore Roosevelt) we normally term ‘insanity’.
I’m not saying that transgender people or their supporters (of which I’m one) are crazy! Just that the self-assertion of a claim to identity without proof – and the assumption that those who refuse to recognise that claim are not only rude but evil – is extraordinary.
Therefore, an appropriate response is: ‘Get real!’
Angry red haired young White woman with raised fist in tight slate-grey tee-shirt
Thanks to Dawn Hudson for releasing her image A Very Angry Woman into the Public Domain.
“Underwhelming” was the word that sprang to mind, as the forensic framing device went on and on, in the opening of the Saturday night performance of Carmen by Scottish Opera in Glasgow’s Theatre Royal, 20th May 2023. Even as a vegan, I was prepared to overlook my reaction to explicit photographs of a bull in various stages of distress, torture and killing—I lived in Andalusia for years and I understand the place of tauromancy in Spanish culture. However, here, out of context, I felt it was an attempt at a cheap thrill for middle class British theatregoers: guilt-free stills of a bestial snuff movie.
Framing devices, when they introduce and inform, can be used effectively. A successful example is used The Method (Метод) the Netflix series where police interview a young Russian woman who vividly recalls incidents with her former detective partner.
Such devices should not dominate and this one did. “Investigator” Carmen Pierarccini, fresh from multiple TV shows about that tired genre, Gritty Glasgow, must have been bored out of her mind as she constantly stalked around the stage on block heels with apparently no more direction (or motivation) than ‘fiddle with these photies and make sure he kens who wears the pant suit!’
“He”, then, in this apparently feminist production, was made to take centre stage. “José” (only pronounced correctly by the Toreador) suffered from a Zelenskyesque uniformity of costume, in his case a dirty white vest, and only when singing “There through the lonely hours in prison” in Act II did he obtain any credibility as a lover. Alok Kumar is a handsome man with a robust physique so this was a great opportunity missed, but as the (lack of) drama unfolded, I began to realise that the emasculation of most of the male characters was a directorial decision.
Of the Creative Team, only the Conductor Dane Lam and (perhaps) the Projection Designer can be absolved of blame. The music was excellent so it’s not the fault of the orchestra that the solo singing, mostly, instead of welling up from the heartland saturated with emotion, sounded strangled and the chorus discordant. The protection, though very overused, was dramaturgically interesting and (in uncooperative departmental management mode) perhaps cannot be blamed for the bewildering gaps in the backdrop that made the oddly illustrated Tarot card reading in Act III even more obscure.
Whereas both Bizet’s original stylish French and the snappy American English version, Carmen Jones, have lyrics both beautiful and memorable, I struggle to recall any of this stilted English version. The aforementioned prison song has none of the verve of “La fleur que tu m’avais jetée” or “Dis flower dat you threw my way”. I’m not being either elitist or eclectic about language. It’s perfectly possible to use English in opera. Handel’s Acis and Galatea, with text by John Gay, is a lovely example.
Unfortunately, in this troubled production, language was the least of the problems. Costumes, props, scenery and choreography were almost monotonously drab. I felt as if I was watching a halfhearted production of Les Mis by disgruntled traffic wardens who’d missed their flight to the Costa Brava. People wandered on and wandered off, with an awful lot of hanging around in the process. The default setting was desks and chairs, the choreography (apart from the crowdsurfing fun with the Toreador) would be outclassed by any bunch of Glasgow grannies doing The Slosh down the local Miners’. There was no attempt to make the fighting to the death between two robust virile adult male rival lovers in a culture of pride and shame and blood remotely convincing.
The women dancing. It would be unfair to expect the usual beguiling florea of the fingers, beautiful braceo of the arms, intricate zapateado of the feet and punishing taconeo of the heels, accompanied by the exact handclaps of the compás set by the strumming tocoar and pounding palo seco (these days effectively replaced by the hand slapped cajón)—but come on Carmen, make an effort!
The men dancing. Any semi-sober Brit abroad, persuaded to swap his Union Jack shorts and flip-flops for decent black trousers and shoes for an afternoon to learn the basic passes for the Cruzes de Mayo festival could have done better. Andalusian men do not twirl their wrists.
Not once during a performance of 2 hours and 20 minutes supposedly set in Southern Spain and featuring Flamenco, Gypsies and bullfighting, did any character ever shout “Olé!” which is such a habitual utterance there that it accompanies everything from well-chosen sarcasm to dropping a plate in a café.
In summary, this awful production was difficult to sit through. The couple in the neighbouring seats scarpered at the interval, my companion—before I launched into my diatribe—was clearly trying to find something to praise (Phillip Rhodes as the Toreador was great and Hye-Youn Lee as Micaëla, though a bit screechy, did her best) and the highest praise overheard in the queue for the ice-cream was “there’s only an hour to go”.
Carmen continues on tour. Information from Scottish Opera.
Dark-haired woman screeching
Thanks to Dawn Hudson for releasing her image Scary Woman into the Public Domain.
Beaches of St Valery by Stuart Hepburn Kirky Players 18 May 2023
A very enjoyable, and at times very emotional few hours at the Turret Theatre in Kirkintilloch this evening watching the two one act plays on the theme of Lives Touched by War. Seascape looked at the theme of internment for civilians and Beaches of St Valery the fate of the 51st Highland division in June of 1940. Though both were enjoyable, Beaches was outstandingly good and so obvious why Kirky Players have received awards for their rendition of this play. All three actors, Lewis Baird (as the young engineer/ soldier Callum) alongside Claire Connor (his fellow engineer/ soldier and later saviour and love interest) and Allan Cowan (as Old Callum looking back on his life / or as sergeant McGregor/ Mclean) took us through a range of emotions with the use of very minimum staging—3 chairs, a writing set and the odd change of clothing. The intimacy of this little theatre with the addition of a well-chosen pipe tune, the singing of the lighthearted, ‘We’re going to hand out the washing on the Siegfried line’ as well as the more emotional ‘Flowers of the Forest’ as well as black and white images, including those of the Cameron Highlanders projected onto a backdrop, really was a great ‘stage’ for these three talented actors. On a personal note, I hadn’t expected to be so moved but, as the play unfolded, I realised that this was also my father’s story: although from Glasgow, he volunteered for the 4th Battalion of the Queen’s own Cameron Highlanders, was with the 51st Highland division at the Maginot line and was one of the 9,000 captured and marched off to prisoner of war camps in 1940. Thank you Kirky Players for a wonderful evening.
Mrs C. Fodey
Show poster: titles, dates & ticket information on a field of red poppies, Kirkintilloch Players.
alchemicalquality 