I woke up at 7:20 this morning to the sound of heavy rain. Now normally on a Sunday that would be an okay thing, but not today. Today the rain meant that I would be getting wet on my way to the hen house to take care of the girl's morning ablutions. No lollygagging about as I had to get ready to go to church. Well, no time like the present.
I slid out of bed, put on my chicken-tending Crocs, donned my bathrobe and went to the kitchen. Filling a pitcher with water, I grabbed my Monet's Garden umbrella my mother-in-law gave me for my birthday last year and trotted out into the darkness.
Let me describe our tiny piece of land to you- it slopes. And where is the chicken pen? Near the bottom of the slope. And what happens when you have copious amounts of rain? The ground gets muddy. And what happens when you step on muddy, no-longer-grass-bearing, sloping ground wearing your chicken-tending Crocs? You slide. About two and a half feet, until you reach the place where you had to dig out the hill to accommodate the door to the pen. Then you carry on sliding until you come to a stop at the door. And what happens to the pitcher of water you were carrying as you slid down the hill? It pours out all over you. And the umbrella? It rolls away, probably back to Giverny. But that doesn't matter, because you are already soaking wet from the pitcher's contents, which is now seeping through your bathrobe and into your pyjamas.
Yes, that pretty well describes my Sunday morning. I got up from the ground dripping wet, covered in mud and chicken poop and hoping beyond all hope that no one was watching me. They weren't. Or at least that is what I'd like to think. Back to the kitchen I went, filled yet another pitcher of water, cursed my chicken-tending Crocs and went back out into the dark, rainy morning to complete my chores.
I'm pretty sure that I heard the girls laughing in the hen house.