KEY POINTS:
It's not often I have a builder beg me not to use his services but that's exactly what my one did the other day. It was about the hens.
Most dramas in my house these days revolve around Marigold, Hillary and Yoko who have taken to jumping through the lounge window and joining my daughter on the couch to watch Home and Away with no one even suggesting this is a bad idea.
"I just don't think you should spend a thousand dollars on fencing to contain three chickens that cost you $20 each. Just get rid of them," he said with his hands on his hips, displaying a builder-like determination and a rugged outlook on life.
"I can't," I pleaded. "My husband would never forgive me."
"Just say they ran away," he suggested helpfully. "Look, one of them is on the street now."
It was Marigold. The bantamweight of the three, she's an expert at slipping through the net.
I was sorely tempted to go along with his suggestion and shoo them all off down the road in the direction of Grey Lynn Park until I remembered I can never lie to my husband. He'd see right through the whole nasty business.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I told the builder, summoning my bossy voice before running inside to tell my husband he's a nutter and recite a list of things I would rather do with one thousand hard-earned dollars, such as half an air ticket to Europe, a quarter of a Lilliput caravan I have my eye on, or two hot nights in a luxury hotel, dinner included.
"They're my hobby," he explained patiently, as you do to confused old ladies on the bus. "I don't play golf so consider it as something I do instead of golf, except it's cheaper."
I would rather he played golf. Apart from the obvious benefit of having him out from under my feet, I could have my garden back, not have to clean up the astonishingly large amounts of chicken droppings around the place and chase escaped chickens down the road, to the delight of my neighbours.
But he refuses. This is the man whose ring tone on his cellphone is now the sound of a rooster, whose favourite dish is now bacon and egg pie, who spends every available moment outside conversing with three hens in a secret language he seems to have developed.
And so the builder came and the total bill for getting three hens to live with us is now around $2000.
For three eggs a day, which adds up to 1092 eggs a year, which means we are paying $2 an egg on a yearly term, $4 over six months.
The hens have obviously sensed that in today's tough economic conditions the bottom line may not be presenting in their favour because the phone rang and it was a producer from Campbell Live on the other end.
"Look, I've told you," I barked down the phone as soon as he introduced himself, "ever since Lady Diana the demand for gossip has changed and women's magazines are suffering because of the readily available gossip on the internet.
"Haven't you got some other tragic old gossip mag queen you can use to dial a quote about the magazine industry?" I demanded.
"Um ..." he said politely. "It's not actually about you Wendyl, it's about the chickens."
Apparently, Marigold, Hillary and Yoko are in demand and will feature in a story about their role as ambassadors for the new trend of keeping chickens in the city.
One of them must have skipped across the road and had a chat to my neighbour, the talent agent.
"Oh, how gorgeous," beamed my husband, full of pride. "They so deserve it. I hope we don't have any problems with their adoring public."
The hens got busy and spent all day dust-bathing in preparation and were so excited they forgot to lay any eggs. The builder hammered away, presented his bill, accepted some eggs and with a last look over his shoulder wished me luck before muttering, "Celebrity hens, what next?".
