Counting Chickens

While I was out and about yesterday, I was treated to a rare event, one that probably only happens every six months or so, if you average it out: I ran into another Albion fan. We're very thin on the ground in this neck of the woods, so it's always a pleasure to stop and meet another Baggie. It's reached that point in the season where we always find ourselves tensely waiting to see whether we can achieve promotion or avoid relegation, depending on which division our yo-yo cycle currently has us in. This year it's avoiding relegation, and after some great results recently, we're desperately close to achieving that goal for the first time in six years. Needless to say, there's some fervent chicken-counting going on among the blue and white faithful at this moment in time.

And today, I had the chance to quite literally practise my galline numeracy. After walking up to Jubilee Tower in the baking hot sun, I decided to have a breather in Quernmore on the way back. There's a bench right in the centre of the village, set with its back against the wall of a chicken farm. If there's a worse-placed bench than this one in all of the north of England, I'd love to see it. The chickens roam freely, and at the slightest sign of anyone parking their arse over the other side of the wall, they hop up on top (with disturbing stealth, I have to add), and when they've mustered enough force, they poke their bodies between the rails and do their best to peck at your head. I'm not pissing about. It really is like The Birds, only a little less alarming given that these birds are shit at that whole "flying" business.

I didn't bother counting them, by the way; just took some photographs and then left. (Alright, I may have pulled some faces at them as well). I'll leave the counting to fools and farmers.