The queen lives in our greenhouse

The queen lives in our greenhouse
It's her Edinburgh retreat
She keeps it clear of greenfly
And crushes ants with her feet

The queen lives in our greenhouse
She's a master with the chillies
She likes playing World of Warcraft
When not betting on the fillies

The queen lives in our greenhouse
She gives a little wave
On Thursdays she dons dungarees
Says she's a lumberjack called Dave

The queen lives in our greenhouse
She looks bigger on the telly
No larger than a dormouse
She fits inside a welly

The queen lives in our greenhouse
We get manure from her poo
To us she's Garden Betty
But Her Royal Majesty to you

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I feel a little run of daft poetry coming on...

First day back at work, no big disasters to sort out, but by eck am I going to be busy in a short period of time.

No word yet on the British Wildlife Photography Awards (getting ahead of myself, will hear by the end of the week if shortlisted); but Smallholder magazine is interested in an article on urban chicken keeping and some of my chicken photos (including for the cover). Wahey!