How not to be a chicken.

You can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. And the same can be said for chickens too.

We have a rescue chicken named Ripley. The boys named her that after the Sigourney Weaver character in Alien, because Ripley survived a coyote attack, a hawk attack, and a raccoon attack, which took her three sisters. She arrived with us just before Christmas to take up home. And she really is a lovely wee thing, but the problem is she doesn’t know how to be a chicken.

Where she was before I guess they had a kind of, “Wouldn’t it be magic to have a pet chicken follow you around all the time?” attitude. Spoiler alert: No, it wouldn’t. Chickens are meant to be with other chickens. They are social creatures who do well within a flock. They also, by the way, poop everywhere. There is no such thing as training a chicken to use a litter tray or whatever. So if you’re thinking of having a house chicken any time soon, then you'd better get used to the idea of a very stinky carpet.

Anyway, as a result of how she lived before, Ripley doesn’t know how to behave like a regular chicken. She wants me to sit and cuddle her, she wants to come into the house and be hand-fed. She’d rather sleep under a shrub in the backyard than within the safety of the coop and, because she wants to know where I am, she will stand outside the patio door pecking on the glass to be let in.

It is not a good way of life for her. Within the flock, she will find companionship, company, and with Genghis’s beady eye upon her, safety from any hawk, raccoon, or coyote attack.

But Ripley doesn’t understand that. She can't comprehend that the way her world used to look no longer exists, and is terrified of this new world she finds herself in.

She will not eat with the other chickens. She will not free range with them either, preferring instead to isolate and stress, hiding in the darkness of the coop all day. She can't work out how to be. And until she does, all we can do is give her food and water and be patient.

The other chickens sense she is troubled. They eye her warily, as she freaks out if any of them come near her. And for now, they have all stopped laying.

And yet, as annoying as Ripley undoubtedly is, I feel at the moment that she might be my spirit animal, because I don't know how to be, either.

On Wednesday, in Minnesota - a place that, before, always used to make me think of John Denver - a woman was murdered in broad daylight by a man whose wages she paid with her own taxes. And then the President and his lackies - whose wages are similarly paid by our taxes - spouted nothing but the predictable incendiary poison.

And I’ve found myself so full of feelings with nowhere to go. There is no beach somewhere that I can flee to, to forget my troubles, because this bunch of assholes will no doubt find some way to talk about invading it. There is no one who can tell me when it will get better, because everyone who's not a moronic lunatic is struggling too. My heart is heavy with sorrow and rage, and my mind keeps picturing a 6-year-old who went to school one morning and came home to find his mother gone forever, because some half cocked excuse for a human blew her head off because she didn't see him as scary enough.

Like Ripley, I want to hide in some dark corner somewhere, hoping that if I just stay there for a while, the badness will go away.

But on Thursday, a friend of ours was getting his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. To be honest, I didn’t want to go, but I really am fond of this guy. I've known him for a hundred years, and he is a properly good person. And there are times in life when you ought to show up for people, and if someone is getting a star on the Walk of Fame then frankly that’s a time.

So Mark and I went to the ceremony and reception, and in truth, it was lovely. My friend was nervous, as any of us would be. And he thought it was a crazy thing that he should be getting a star, and I said how I thought the word he should be looking for was ‘brilliant’. And that in terms of crazy, there were much crazier things going on in the world right now. And he nodded, and we both shared a sad smile.

He was introduced at the ceremony by Monica Lewinsky, who did a genuinely beautiful speech about friendship. I guess anyone who becomes the butt of a million jokes and sneering comments at the tender age of 22 knows what friendship really means. And I tried not to think about how many of those comments were made by men currently on the Epstein list, because that would only lead me back into the darkness again.

Afterwards there was a lunch, and talking about old times, and talking about new times, and hanging out with people you know you look forward to meeting again. Because, true to the fact that you can tell a person by the company they keep, my friend keeps good company. At his events, there’s always people who have likewise known him for ages, alongside newer people he's picked up along the way. There's a shorthand between us all - a recognition that you've entered a ‘no douchebag’ zone, and conversation is easy.

Heading home, my sad and angry heart felt a bit better, because when something good happens to a good person, the air feels so much easier to breathe.

In the car, Mark and I were laughing and chatting away about how lovely it had been, then he made the mistake of asking if I’d asked some people to my book launch.

Mark and I have been having, shall I say, tricky conversations about my upcoming book launch. I know it's happening. I know I should be organized, but aside from sending out an email to about 15 people in December, I’ve done practically nothing. For some reason, I've been resistant to it.

When I didn't answer Mark’s question, he knew the answer.

“Why didn't you?”

I shrugged.

“Is there something going on?” he said, eying me from the driver's seat. “Is there something I should know about? Are you embarrassed? Do you not like this book?”

“ No. Nothing like that,” I replied. “It's just…”

And then I stopped speaking because a whole load of feelings started to come up.

“It's what?” he asked.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” I said,” It's just a fucking book. It's meaningless. Look at the world. Look at it. Can you see what's going on? Who actually needs to give a fuck about a book?”

And Mark said, “Who actually needs to gives a fuck about a star on the walk of fame? Everything is meaningless until you give it meaning. Are you telling me the only thing worth thinking about is what those pricks are doing? We are all struggling. All of us. And hiding yourself makes precisely nothing better. Not for anyone. Yes, you can show up for others. Now, do me a favor and show up for yourself.”

And I didn't like the way that made me feel, so I muttered, “Ok Yoda Tweddle, I hear you,” and looked out the window.

And we came home, and Mark went off to build his shed. I changed into slouchy clothes and drank a cup of tea, and then I went out to see the chickens. Genghis and the girls were out pecking in the backyard. I threw them some sunflower seeds, and they were mightily pleased.

Ripley, of course, was absent. So I opened up the coop, and there she was sitting in the dark. She sidled over for me to pick her up, and clucked away in a chatty fashion as we sat on a bench.

“Look,” I said, “I know that everything has changed, and it's hard. I know that terrible, unthinkable things have happened, and they could happen again any minute. I know you are scared and disoriented, and to be honest, so am I. But you can’t keep hiding away. You can’t let yourself just waste away in the darkness. You have to keep pulling yourself out of this. Not just for you, but for everyone. How about we make a deal? You try, and I will too.”

And Ripley, because she is a chicken, understood precisely nothing I had said. But then I gave her some sunflower seeds, and that definitely perked her up a bit.

And as for me, I'm doing my best to pull it together. I’m still a complete administrative mess, but in order to reassure Yoda Tweddle that I haven't completely lost my marbles, I’m openly talking about the book and the book launch, and it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. The hardest thing of all really is to remember to pull my heart out of the darkness.

Though I do not like accepting so many unacceptable things that I cannot currently change, I have recognized that disappearing is not the answer - not physically and not mentally. Life will go on, and one day these fuckers will be on the other side of this story. There will come a time to step up.

Anyway, this feels to me like a very long Note, but it does have a point to it - the point being that if you're reading this, then there's a very good chance you're not a chicken.

In which case, I can say…. I know that everything has changed, and it's hard. I know that terrible, unthinkable things have happened, and they could happen again any minute. I know you are scared and disoriented, and to be honest, so am I. But you can’t let yourself just waste away in the darkness. You have to keep pulling yourself out of this. Not just for you, but for everyone. How about we make a deal? You try, and I will too.

And because you’re not an actual chicken, you will understand.

xo

PS: If you click on the heart emoji to like this post, I will tell Ripley - and it will make absolutely no difference to her whatsoever. The algorithm will be very pleased though, so that’s almost as good.

Begging your pardon. Yoda Tweddle here. Very making sheds, I am. If you want to come to the book launch, click here, https://fishandbear.net/event/lynns-book-launch/

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How not to be a chicken - Audio