I'm not often lippy but the poultry auction makes me nervous. It's not the birds, it's the Welsh fella. I went there today to collect the wages of the 10yo, following the sale of her Salmon Faverolles. If you haven't read about the poultry auction or if you need some serious (not) tips about conducting yourself at a poultry auction, click here.
My nervousness was well founded. I strode into the vast, chilly shed this morning, determined to be a grown up. I was dressed decently enough in my autumnal grey poncho, (the one that drank my coffee that other time, leaving me with Damp Tassles....sheesh!) and my high-heeled brown boots. Obviously that wasn't all I was wearing. [Shakes head in disbelief] I'm trying to tell you that I was looking serious; Marks and Spencery.
I couldn't see the Welsh fella anywhere, I think he's a poultry dealer, but in order to decrease a chance encounter I studied the caged birds intently. Close to the Indian Runner duck section I heard an unmistakable lilt of Welsh calling to me.
'Pardon me?' I foolishly enquired, turning to see the twinkly rogue standing with his pals.
'You get that poncho from Clint Eastwood see?'
'Clint Eastwood - Poncho.'
'Yes, as a matter of fact I did.' I replied hotly. 'And I'm packing under here, so watch it!' Bring it ohnnnn.. I can do gun-slinging analogies with the best of them. So there!
His friends nudged him, giggling.
'Oh,' he said smirking, shifting his position slightly from the rail he was leaning on. 'Lift up your cape then and we'll 'ave a look...'
[Exit blushing blonde stage-right....]