It may be true that chickens are stupid, but they could still pass a couple of A-levels

I don’t mind the Olympics, if that’s what people want to do, but I think it’s very un-British for Team GB to keep winning so many medals. It would be far better if they almost won, but couldn’t quite cut it on the day, don’t you think? Fourth position would be ideal. That’s what we’ve come to expect from our sportsmen and women, and I’m afraid they’ve let us down horribly. Vulgar gold, silver and bronze medals are to be seen around the necks of any old red-white-and-blue riff-raff in Beijing, it seems. I have to look away whenever a Brit mounts a podium. It’s embarrassing. That sort of thing is better left to the Americans. They can carry off all that punching the air and relishing of their triumph. We just look uncomfortable. As I recall from my rugby-playing days, it’s not the winning that’s important, it’s the communal showers afterwards.

The six baby chickens have settled in very well. People say they’re stupid, and there may be some truth in that, but I’m sure they could still pass a couple of A-levels. I’ve set up a table and chairs by their run so I can sit in comfort and watch their goings-on. We all have muesli together while I’m still in my pyjamas, and a selection of fruit in the afternoons, by which time I’ve usually managed to slip into some country casuals. In fact, between you and me, when no one’s about I go right into the pen, crouch down and pretend I’m one of them. I do a very fine impersonation of a Scots Dumpy, if I say so myself. If any passing farmworkers peered over my wall, they’d probably want to roast me on the spot.

Female liberation has yet to evolve in the chicken world, I'm sorry to report. Blake, the cockerel, is very much in charge of his five hens. He decides what the activity is going to be (pecking, grooming, snoozing, flapping) and his girls dutifully follow suit. There is the occasional attempt at independence, particularly from Margaret and Maureen, who had the nerve to indulge in some sort of lesbian dust bath without permission, but this was swiftly nipped in the bud.

Bullying is rife among fowl, and I don't mean just name-calling. I'm talking cannibalism, no less. Because we were so thrilled with our newly adopted darlings, the boyfriend and I decided to increase our brood. We drove to a nearby farm that was selling Rhode Island Reds. We chose a particularly perky couple to come and live in celebrity luxury with our flock. The farmer, however, put an end to our Brad and Angelina fantasy. "Put them in with yours and they'll go for 'em," he said darkly. "Once they draw blood, that's it. You'll come out in the morning and there will just be a carcass there." We decided against it.

It’s a whole new world to me so I’ve subscribed to Practical Poultry magazine, which is a gripping read. No political nonsense in there, dear reader, just lots of tips on hen-keeping, all gloriously illustrated with colour pictures. I had no idea, for example, that lice and mites could be a problem. Chickens and gay men have so much in common.

But then I turned to page 34. An article entitled "Grasping the nettle" took a "look at poultry culling, with a practical overview of what's involved at a DIY level". That's neck dislocation to you and me. Or, as the writer suggested, you might prefer a wall-mounted humane despatcher. As I read on, I discovered it was a far more skilled procedure than I had realised: "A good grip plus a swift and confident technique are essential." I sensed I'd be very good at this somehow - not that I would ever lay a finger on my chickens.

It might be a good idea to introduce a new event at the London Olympics, I mused. "Here comes Dame Kelly Holmes with her third attempt at the wall-mounted despatcher." The nation would hold its breath. As would the chicken, no doubt.

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