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Won't you be my neighbour?

So, paranoid at number 4 tried a new tact, this time complaining that our chickens have trespassed on her property. I looked up over my laptop and through my office window to see a member of Sheffield City Council peering over our fence to examine the chicken's humble abode.

Holy shit.

I hung up the phone to whatever insurance company was busting my arse that day to pop outside and offer a kind word, asking if there was anything I could help him with. Did he want to come over and take a closer look? As it turns out, he was quite a nice fellow and we had quite an amicable chat. There was nothing wrong with owning chickens and ours look perfectly content, he said. The only thing is, would we mind trying to make their area a little more secure by putting some pea-netting over the entrance, just to make double sure? Of course, says I. Anything we can do, we'll take care of.

All the while, number 4 is seething from underneath her black hood, listening to the polite back-and-forth between perfectly friendly adults and hoping that the fine councilman would suddenly stumble across some underage prostitute ring I have been running from our garden shed.

Sorry to disappoint, but they're just chickens. And it's just a front door closing, and the next time you complain it will be something equally minor.

I think the council may now have heard the cry of wolf on too many occasions and next time they'll just let the fucker eat all her sheep.
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