When I sit at my writing desk, this is my writer's-eye-view: chickens in flower pots, chickens perched on old shelving; chickens pecking their way through the un-mown grass, dandelions and nettles of our back garden nature reserve. These are wyandotte bantams, and their yellow legs (currently folded away) remind me of the saffron-coloured hen stockings Mrs Tiggywinkle laundered.
But these are no twee little chicks. They are ferocious predators. They've seen off the cat, and the dog has clearly made up his mind never to have eye contact with them. I've seen them hunt, slice up and swallow a live slow worm. Given the choice, they are highly carnivorous, and they move around their territory like something deeply Cretaceous.
Sometimes there are five of them lined up, observing my indoor movements. Intensely curious about the interior of the house, they follow me with all ten of their beady eyes. I don't think I'm on the menu, but this watching seems to be entertainment for them, as if they're looking at real-time television.