Hen Weekend

With a heading like ‘hen weekend’ in a farming blog, you might reasonably expect that this weekend will be spent busily preparing for the arrival of some softly clucking bantams - a lovely wooden chicken coop with spacious grassy run in the garden near the vegetable patch, perhaps (we don't have a vegetable patch).

In fact, I’m actually going on a hen weekend. But as I discovered earlier this evening, my 82 year-old Gran would much prefer I was doing the former.

Every fortnight, my vegetable box gets delivered to my Gran’s house in town (we live just outside the delivery catchment area), but as I’m away this weekend I rang to tell her she could keep it. ‘Where are you going, dear?’ she asked innocently. ‘Edinburgh, Gran,’ I told her, realising too late that this conversation wasn’t going anywhere good.

‘What are you doing in Edinburgh, dear?’ she pressed. ‘I’m going on a hen weekend, Gran,’ I confessed, foolishly. ‘Oh,’ she said gravely. ‘And have you got permission to do that, dear?’ she continued, entirely serious. ‘I don’t need permission, Gran,’ I sighed, going on to explain that the farmer frequently goes on stag weekends and similarly doesn’t need my permission. ‘You’re a funny pair,’ she replied, not sounding the slightest bit amused.

Keen to change the subject, I asked her what was in the box this week: a big bag of mixed salad leaves, some sort of chard, a head of celery, beetroot, potatoes, carrots and onions. ‘It looks lovely dear,’ she enthused, mood considerably brighter, ‘I think I’ll make some soup and a casserole!’

Ringing off, she told me – very reluctantly – to enjoy my weekend before adding: ‘you behave yourself, Young Lady!’ I give up. 'Enjoy the vegetables,' I said sweetly.