I recently acquired three lovely new hens, but so far my husband’s schemes to protect them from foxes with a goose patrol or drone have not reached fruition. Instead, I have implemented what my best friend has named Gooce, or Global Oversight of Chicken Existence. I’ve moved into the garden shed to guard them as they free range.
We are not talking about a heated home office here: it’s emphatically a shed. But there’s a power outlet and a knackered sofa, so if I wrap up well, they can roam safely for a few hours, at least until a new bird flu “flockdown” reaches us (there’s one happening in nearby East Yorkshire already).
In theory it seemed like a great plan. I looked forward to seeing the girls exploring their new home; I feel guilty keeping them cooped up. Plus, surely there would be fringe benefits for me? All that fresh air and vitamin D would reset my circadian rhythms. I imagined myself like Thoreau in his cabin – communing with nature, simply, deliberately, austerely (albeit with the addition of a Lakeland heated throw, my laptop on a tray, and biscuits).
I hadn’t reckoned on this brutal cold snap. It’s currently -1C out here and even with the throw on max power, coat, scarf and hat, I would be Googling “signs of hypothermia” if I could feel my fingers. Other things I cannot feel: my feet, face (“Your lips are grey?!” said a friend to whom I sent a shed selfie) and brain.
Meanwhile, the hens, who were supposed to be enjoying their freedom, aren’t. The minute I let them out, they head straight across to join me in the shed; I suppose they’re cold too. It makes for an interesting co-working experience. One is pecking my laptop escape key as I type; yesterday she perched on the screen, capsizing it. They also take my snacks without asking, chat constantly and poo everywhere. I mean, I’ve had worse colleagues and I’m not giving up – I have a plan to lay out treats to encourage them to operate as feathery footwarmers – but Gooce is not quite optimised yet.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
