It’s things like this that make me miss being at home. I would’ve been delighted to go and see such a film. As it stands, I’ve been hearing The Mom talk about it at length so in some ways it feels as though I was there.
And I have a pretty good idea of what it would be like, as while I was studying for my PhD up in Glasgow, I dragged two friends down to Blackpool on the third weekend in January to attend the Royal Pigeon Racing Association’s annual conference. Hosted in the Winter Gardens, it was a giant hall filled with individual pigeons in individual cages, all with ribbons boasting of their winning attributes pinned behind them.
There was also a section for fancy pigeons, but I don’t think they were being judged. Just admired.
Anyhow, having been to see, first hand, such a tremendous spectacle, I had some idea of what The Mom, L’il Sis and Crazy D’s better-half were in for. Which made it even harder to not get to see the doc myself!
My interest and fascination with chickens is long-standing. In university, a dear friend of mine had a big poster of fancy chickens and when she was tired of it, I snatched it from her and carted it around for some time. When The Mom bought me my first set of dishes after I’d moved out, they had chickens on them. I’ve had wooden sculptures of chickens, pictures, dolls, posters… in short, I have been a fan of chickens for some time.
There’s really no good reason why. I just think they’re great. They’re funny, fluffy birds and they wander around outside. For that, I adore them. And for years, YEARS, I have been begging The Mom to let us keep a few hens in the back yard. I have been admiring these exquisite chicken coops – so lauded for their design that they’re displayed in the Victoria and Albert Museum. I have, in fact, devised a fairly elaborate fantasy in which myself and a flock of cute chickens have a very nice life, eating scraps from the kitchen, and having adventures. Mostly though I just imagine how great it would be to go out back and hear the clucking of hens.
This chicken documentary that everyone went to see without me explains, potentially, how us having chickens would end up: except, instead of an elderly toothless man fluffing his hens up before the big show, it would be me. And I think The Mom knows it’s not going to take much to push me over that edge, into crazy chicken lady territory. At least, that’s what I tell myself when she flat out refuses to let me keep chickens.