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Self-Insufficiency
Spring was now in full effect and although there was lots to do in the garden, in the house,
with the animals and the children, I couldn't have been happier. Finally, the renovation work
was due to start on the 'classroom' for our school. The idea, we had decided, would be to set
up 'Writing Holidays' where we would hire an author for a week and they would teach the stu-
dents how to write in a particular genre. One of the most important points of selling this idea
to potential students was that we could offer total peace, a bucolic haven which would provide
a distraction-free environment for aspiring authors. Yes, well, good luck with that I thought.
The place was feeling about as distraction-free as Piccadilly Circus.
'I think we should build into the loft,' I ventured tentatively to Natalie, 'the loft above the
classroom.'
'What for?' she replied, really knowing the answer all along.
'I just need a bit of space to work in. Rather than combine the office and classroom, we could
separate the two. I could take all my stuff out there.' I added quickly knowing that would clinch
it. I had chairs, dressers, shelf units you name it that simply didn't fit the farmhouse look that
Natalie was aiming for in the house; they stood out like modernist warts against her shabby
chic background.
'Will you take those awful, metal bar stools out there?'
'Definitely,' I said, and went out to check on the hens.
It had taken a while, but Tallulah and Lola were finally 'with egg'. One small one each at first,
but they grew in size and then it became a daily ritual to go to their coop, say good morning
to 'my ladies', and return with the spoils. It became the first thing we did in the morning and
made me, and everyone else inordinately happy - Thérence, by now released from the tyranny
of his fungal condition, especially, as it became 'his' job. A lovely way to start the day.
Their new coop, which I had ferried from England, had done the trick. Logistically it had
proved something of a problem - it barely fitted (flat-packed obviously) into the car, but hav-
ing squeezed it in I had difficulty getting it out again. This thing was going to be huge, I
thought. It wasn't. In fact, it was disappointingly small after I'd eventually put it all together,
a triumph of illusionary packaging. My ladies didn't seem to mind, though, as I tempted them
into their new home. They scratched about a bit, went up the ramp to their beds, sat on their
perches, ate from the trough, drank from their 'well' and generally nosed about the place like a
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