When I got back, Mr SC had been having a bad day at work and was fighting with his motorbike in order to fit a new cable to it. I decided it was best we get out and chill out, so we went to the pub at the top of the hill and had dinner. Our friends T and K turned up a few minutes later, and we had a good old natter. T has just handed in all his university coursework and is on the hunt for a job. I must remember to ask my Dad if he still has a contact in the recruitment company in London. T is one smart cookie, and really should be snapped up immediately by any smart company.
When we had finished eating, a friend of K's knocked on the pub window and called her outside. K wanders out, and is followed by T. We sit for a minute and chat, before T comes racing back in a few steps ahead of K. There is a bundle in K's arms that looks like a half-full paper sack of potatoes. K sits down with the bundle on her lap, and T pulls away a corner of the bag. A slightly disgruntled chicken pops it's head up, and aims several sharp pecks at T. The landlady admits that she has seen everything now.
K's friend's husband had been given a live chicken by a colleague for him to either keep or eat, whichever he fancied. Husband and wife could not face killing and eating the chicken, so was passing it on to K to add to the small flock they already keep. The origin and sex of the chicken is still unknown, although it was declared by T that it was a bit of a gender bending chicken if it wasn't female. Followed by a discussion on the similarities between chickens and a certain variety of frogs that can spontaneously change sex.
I love my life.
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