The Days of Christmas (Part Three- The Hens)

Three French hens.

I got myself into a bit of a quandary over this.  When you say French hens, do you mean Faverolles chickens, a breed originating in north-central France, in the vicinity of the village called Faverolle?  These are wide-spread and can be picked up for a few pounds at any livestock market.  Or do you mean, hens that are inherently French, as in ‘from France’?

If you just mean the breed, that all seems a bit too easy.  Back in the 1780s when the ‘Twelve Days’ song was getting written, these chickens had not yet set out on the road to global genetic domination and our story’s original hero probably had to go all the way to the département of Eure-et-Loir to get his French hens, which probably wasn’t very safe, given that France had already begun the build up to bloody revolution.  God, he must have been brave and determined… not to mention, randy.

Anyway, I’m not being outdone.  I booked Eurostar.

It’s not exactly an onerous journey through dangerous country anymore, unless you count the perilous passage under the channel, running the gauntlet of migrant camps as you emerge at Calais, or the bubbling undercurrent that suggests France will soon default on its Euro debts and plunge the continent into rebellious chaos once more.  (Sheep will be burned, rebates cancelled, monarchs and minor celebrities beheaded as the proletariat indiscriminately trashes authority, the Internet and Satellite TV culture – that kind of thing.)

Less of that… back to the train:

I must admit I got some funny looks, whizzing along at 160 mph.  It’s surprising but even at that speed the trains don’t make much noise, not enough anyway to drown the clucking protests of my three new girls, perched up on the luggage racks in their duty-free carrier bags.  They didn’t seem to be enjoying the forcible migration that I was imposing on them.  Perhaps it’s true that birds have a compass telling them north from south; perhaps they knew I was taking them in the wrong direction for a warm winter.  (On the other hand, what would be the point of hens retaining a compass; they forgot how to fly millennia ago.)

“Animatronics,” I explained to my fellow passengers when they stared quizzically upwards.

“Cest très réaliste,” said the man in seat 43C.

“Um, yes,” I said.  “Toy of the year.  Even Hamleys are having trouble getting supplies.”

…Day three is ticked off.