How to conduct oneself at a Poultry Auction....

A POULTRY AUCTION
Pre-Auction (Selling) Things to do...

1. Identify birds for sale
2. Segregate the blighters
3. Find suitable box(es) for transportation
4. Pack food and water for them....gin for you
5. Wear nothing you care about

At Auction (Selling) Things to do...

1. Get there stupidly early to bagsy an early lot/cage
2. Beg everyone for help
3. Take birds out of the box(es) and place into the selling cages without losing them...sheesh!
4. Listen and act on all free advice offered, (if the veterans sense you are a virgin seller they will offer tons of advice) NB If the person looks like a complete numpty, consider the advice carefully...
5. When your birds sell, don't cry, interview the new prospective parents or ask if you can visit.

This morning just after 6:30am I packed up the Bantam roosters and three of the girls, decided against the gin, and drove off into the sunrise towards Hereford.

It was a beautiful morning, cool not cold with not a whisper of a breeze, and I could hardly hear the pitiful cries of the chickens over the audio book, (Philip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass - brilliantly read by the author and actors.)

By the time I pulled into the livestock market, some twenty-five miles away from home, the sun was up and it was more like a summer morning than an autumn one. The market looked like a huge unfinished metal shed, unfinished because one side is open to the elements displaying the containment rails to keep cattle, pigs or sheep from escaping. It looks like an empty DIY or Wall-Mart superstore.

I wore old jeans, wellingtons and a baggy jumper together with my usual smile, the smile is invaluable for seeking out new friends in unfamiliar situations. While I unpacked my chickens, the transit van next to me in the car park was disgorging its colourful characters and their birds, (just for clarity by birds I mean birds, not street slang birds, though I strongly suspect these chaps were intimately acquainted with quite a few birds, if you know what I mean, nudge-nudge!)

By their voices I knew these chaps were Welsh and I would have described them as farmers, except that their earrings made me think they were more traders than farmers. As I got out of the car they toned down their banter, which had sounded very, very bawdy till they clocked me, and we all exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the fact that they'd driven from mid-Wales to come to the sale and the forthcoming rugby game on Saturday. (Cumoooonnnnn Wales!)

Their chief and ringleader was a stocky chap about my age, (... young, OK?!) He was twinkly-eyed and bar-room confident, a lovable rogue, - you know the type.

After the auction-porter and I had loaded my lots into three sales cages; 2 pairs comprising a cock and hen and a trio made of two cocks and one hen. The chief Welsh trader from the transit sidled up beside me to enquire about my chooks. Soon I had my very own personal advisor and he stood very close, whispering poultry secrets.

'You makin' a mistake there luv, you needs to make a trio, rather than leave that hen with the two cocks.' He said in his lovely Welsh accent. I, being blonde and tired, looked blank.

'I've made a trio,' I said, wondering if trio meant something different in Welsh and wishing I didn't have to discuss trios or cocks with a man I hardly knew.

'No luv, a trio's two hens and a cock, not two cocks and a hen!'

'Ah.'

'I'll grab the cocks out and you can put the hen in with the pair if you like? You'll not make any money see, as the cocks'll cancel out the worth of the hen.'

Dear Lord why is everything so sodding complicated!

Anyhoo cocks grabbed (dear Lord!) and girls moved, all was happy in camp Archer. Bearing in mind that the sale didn't start for another 2 hours I decided not to stay chatting to my new best friend, as our vocab was worrying me, so instead I zoomed off to Asda, (big shop wow-wee) to get provisions for the mountain.

By ten, the metal shed was pretty full of cock-a-doodle-doos and lots of breeds of people. I wandered about, briefly on my own, observing the characters - a great place for the writing.

Soon I was joined by my buddy who chatted about chickens and horses and sheep until he enquired whether I had much land and livestock. I'm not sure it was a proposal of marriage, he sussing whether he and I could join poultry forces, but I found myself constantly mentioning my husband and the sprogs but not where we actually lived.

'Have you got raaabbits on the land?' He enquired kindly. I was glad we were moving away from the in-depth analysis of me and of the double entendre language he seemed to enjoy.

'God yes, loads. I can see them from my bedroom window every morning.' [Screech! Why did I mention the bedroom!!!]

'I'll do you a bit of ferretting up your way if you like, pop over like, [from mid-Wales!!!] bring me ferrets and the dogs for a bit of a session?' He said eyes a-twinkling.

I came over all Margo from The Good Life [clip below] after that...

'No thank you!' I said indignantly. 'My neighbour does all my ferreting!'  ... Oh! sob! He just grinned.

All in all it was an education. The money was appalling; the trio and pair fetched £11.50... I may have just covered the petrol... and the two cocks fetched a whopping .10p... purchased by my new best friend, a pity-purchase I fear but he did promise faithfully not to murder them.

Hey ho!

Rabbitting on and on and an overdue eye test...

I don't like the taste of rabbit. It's no good sending me your best recipes, I've tried loads of them. I just don't like the taste of the meat, it always tastes a little off to me. Which is why I felt really cross with myself tonight when I found I'd defrosted, not a generous turkey leg but rather, a horrid rabbit. Bugger.

Once again I searched my cook books for something to make the dish edible - nothing. Then I surfed the net, I still couldn't find a recipe.

'Knickers,' thought I.

I decided to roast the sodding thing and if it was still revolting I'd give it to the cats.

Salt, pepper, rough chopped carrots to sit the carcass on and a glass of red wine. (One for me, one for 'im.) Then, because rabbit can be very dry.... [hideous, stinky, nasty, putrid......... Getta grip Lou!...] I wrapped the roasting dish in a foil duvet and stuffed it in the oven for 40 minutes.

I pretended to be eating with the sproglets and passed them over the two roasted legs which they attacked like cavemen. Hubby was to be home later. Then I sliced moist...... moist? moist?!! ....... breast for them too. There was a comforting silence. I was amazed. I decided to brave it.

'Flipping Henry, that's gorgeous!' I said, a taste-sensation in my mouth.

'What kind of meat is this Mummy?' asked the gourmand 8yo.

'Have a guess.'

'It's pheasant.'

'No.'

'Pig, goat, lamb, chicken?'

'No.'

'I think it's pheasant.'

'No, I already said no to pheasant.'

Then the 8yo had a little light-bulb moment; 'Rabbit?'

'Yes. Good girl.'

'Funny that,' she said. 'It looks like a pheasant.'

Clever Mummy, I made yucky rabbit taste like pheasant.

*

Hubby came home when the babies were in bed.

'I now like the taste of rabbit,' I announced.

'Excellent,' he said. ''Bout time.'

'You're having rabbit for dinner too.'

'Even more excellent.' [He's game for anything hubby ..... God I'm funny.]

I brought the remains of the roast to the table with a pile of hot, crisp french fries.....

'That's not rabbit you silly moo,' he said laughing. 'That's the bloody pheasant I shot the other day!...'

'Oh!'

*

....... Clearly I still don't like rabbit!

What could possibly go wrong????

Usually, when my husband is away on business, (whisper please...)... disasters happen. I won't list the disasters of the past, for fear of reminding the disaster daemons...but suffice to say they've been, pretty, damn, B. A. D!

Today however, went quite smoothly. The sun was warm. I cleaned the car and the kids washed their bikes; having ridden them through the woods yesterday with friends.


No chickens died today. No horses escaped. OK, a rabbit was murdered before our eyes by a cat, while the children and I ate dinner in the garden,....but heyho that's nature. Actually, (she sniggered) when the children saw the bunny in Ben's mouth, they politely said,

'May we be excused from the table?'

I gave the nod, mafia-like (or murphia-like really, because I'm actually Irish, well; born to an Irish mum and dad....) I watched as the two cats, one carrying a bunny almost the same size as him, were pursued around the garden by two children. They were desperate to rescue the squealing bunny. All five lashed 'round the pond, hurdled the felled conifers and navigated the stone wall onto the bridlepath! I continued to eat my chicken and coconut curry, while sipping a glass of chilled Chablis, a left-over from the weekend. It was like watching The Goodies or a Benny Hill sketch in fast motion......the cats won. Bunny died. The End....

After dinner, we three played golf till 9pm! Husband has mowed Home field so that we have a par three golf hole, (for him it's a par three! For the rest of us it's a par 99, especially if you go off the fairway, as the meadow grass is up to our knees) The green has a hole in the earth containing an inverted 2 litre pop bottle. This in turn holds a natty flag stick I made....such a talent!

... Well anyway, our game was going really well, until the cats joined in, and then the 7yo had an urgent appointment with the loo, and then the 5yo discovered enormous black slugs, that he collected on dock leaves for the chickens.... so who knows who won. These people who won't take sport seriously! Honestly! Annoying really, as I'm sure I was leading the field... and yet I'm pleased to tell you, I felt none of the urges of Mr T let's-go-down-to-the Woods!!! 'scusting, should be ashamed of himself!

As it was 9pm, there were no sproglet shenanigans regarding bed. They surrendered easily. Pretty late, even for half term. I had just one more ordeal to conquer.......The nightly electrocution.

Well, my hair is slightly frizzier but I locked the chooks down, turning on the dreaded 'leccy fence. I love/hate it.

Oh yes, there was one slight disaster, I dyed my hair. I've had many disasters with my hair in the past...another blog post entirely. But I'm too poor/mean to get the professionals to colour my hair, so I expect failure every so often. Today, instead of just slightly toning down my brassy, gold-blond, shock of madness.....I am now a brunette. Oh well gotta laugh!

Before


After



Clearly my husband's fault entirely. No question!