The Porters have paid a fleeting visit back to the Manchester. This time in order to pick up a car for Wayne to drive back mid-week while Kerry works on till Sunday, then follow Mr. Porter home. Kerry and Wayne have been making do, driving Wayne’s van around, looking, like a couple of professional tinkers.

Its not the sort of vehicle you potter about in in high heels and tiny skirt. Its more designed for boots and muck. And towing excavators round Paris…(See Paris Or Bust)

So, the Idea for the car is to have a more comfortable drive around Cognac, so that when they visit someone it doesn’t look like they’re going to pull up in a cloud of diesel smoke, knock on the occupants and door and ask if they want their drive tarmacing or do they want this old tin bath Monsieur?

Also the main reason is so Kerry can drive herself to the airport on the monthly visits back here and leave the car parked when she lands back in France. This will save Wayne a 4 hour exhausting round-trip, to drop her off and pick her up each time she journeys to-and-from the UK.

They have been busy on the house over the last 3 weeks, concentrating work on the barn conversion, with an eye towards renting it out as a holiday venue for people visiting the area during the summer. This has also involved working on the front and back gardens to make it more presentable.

(Looking back towards the front of the house after working on the garden)

(Looking in the opposite direction before work on the garden, after fitting part of the fencing)

In between all this they continue to work on the farm, looking after the Ostriches. And finding at times its not all fun. The birds are moved into various fields as they grow larger. But sometimes, once they’re in the field, its obvious they’re not quite large enough. So Kez and Wayne will get the shout to bring back a couple of the smaller birds until they’re big enough to move back into the field. This involves bringing a trailer round, loading them in and driving them back into the immediate farm area.

This happened to two of the younger birds, who were duly transported back to the farm. It was upon the arrival back at the starting point, that Kerry was in the kitchen talking to Pierre, when she looked outside to see one of the youngsters panting heavily, taking gulping breathes, having a panic attack in fact.

By the time they rushed outside the youngster had dropped to the floor and was lay obviously distressed, not breathing properly and seemingly running out of energy. Pierre, a retired vet, immediately gave the bird a shot of adrenalen, and it somewhat recovered.

“The wheel barrow. Fetch the barrow Kerry and we’ll load the bird in and take it to a field on its own, where it can recover.’ He said

So Kerry went off to fetch a barrow to carry the bird in.

When she returned though, there was a family visiting Pierre. A mother, father and 3 children.

Kerry had done a double take as she came closer pushing the barrow. It was obvious the bird had taken a permanent turn for the terminal, and now lay prone, stretched out, quite dead.

Pierre in the mean time was explaining to his younger charges,

“Ah oui les petits! L’oiseau est endormi. Voir? Comment il a fermé les yeux et repose, comme un bébé endormi! Oui?”

“Ah Yes little ones! The bird is asleep. See? How it has closed its eyes and rests, like a baby! Fast asleep! Yes?”

Obviously, trying not to distress the children.

And Kerry played along.

“Yes, yes! Asleep! I’ll take our tired bird to the field to rest Pierre? Let it sleep in peace!”

“Oui, s’il vous plaît Kerry. Voir les enfants, l’oiseau va revenir à son champ pour se reposer oui?”

“Yes, please Kerry. See children, the bird is going back to his field to rest yes?”

So it was loaded onto the barrow but its long neck wouldn’t fold on, and it was a constant effort to keep its head on board as it kept rolling off and thudding onto the floor. It was like having a weighted kite tail flopping out every so often. The only thing Kerry could do was stop the barrow every 10 foot or so, and throw the neck and head back on top of the body.

Upon returning she was all smiles and attempting to put a shine on the situation.

“Ho Pierre. The bird is resting in the field (wink, wink.) He’s fast asleep children, having sweet dreams! (Smile)

Only for the eldest, a girl of around 10 to look condescendingly at Kerry and say,

“Eh bien, si ce n’était pas avant, il doit être raide mort maintenant, compter combien de fois vous avez essayé de cerveau le baiseur …..”

“Well, If it wasn’t before, it must be stone dead now, counting how many times you tried to brain the fucker..”

Maybe not quite that, but that’s what she would have said if she could have.

The Ostrich eggs are a great return financially. One egg, boiled, can be served to feed 5 people. Its a feast all on its own. These are collected from the 2 reproduction fields as they are spotted. Only that is, if whoever spots it, knows it wasn’t there the previous day. That way they know its fresh and hasn’t been sat in the sun for a number of days going rotten. If there’s any doubt then the egg is thrown away.

Now Wayne, in an effort to meet the demand of nieces and nephews who having gone to school to tell all and sundry their Aunt and Uncle are working with Ostriches, have began clamoring for Ostrich eggs, (Blown) to take into school in a kind of show-and-tell. So Wayne had picked up a couple of eggs that he knew wouldn’t be used and were due to be thrown away. These he duly took home to prepare for the smaller family members on the other side of the Channel. Taking great care, he took the first egg and propped it in position, then took his drill, set up with a fine drill bit, and carefully began to drill a hole in the end of the egg in preparation to blowing the yoke from it.

This drill bit was completely unsatisfactory though, and wasn’t really doing the job. So it was time to resort to a proper drill bit. A hole cutter in fact. The type of tool you would use to drill a hole to allow a set of kitchen sink taps come through.

This would surely sort it out.

The trouble, with picking up an unclaimed egg your not sure about, is the fact that its just that. Your not sure about it. Keep in mind you’re only going to blow an egg that is going to be thrown away. The problem is, although you know its passed its best you just don’t know how long its lain unattended.

Until that is you try and drill a hole in one end then the other so you can blow the yoke from it to create an empty shell.

Which is what Wayne did for his young niece and nephew.

Kerry was in the house at the time when she her the loud yell, which immediately trailed off into retching, and the sound of someone crashing around the barn stumbling into things. She rushed out to see what had happened, thinking Wayne had had some sort of accident. Which, in a way he had.

The trouble (as Wayne found out) with a rotten egg, is as it decomposes, gas builds up on the inside. So when you take your trusty Makita cordless drill, insert a 15mm hole-cutter bit, hold the egg between your thighs and begin to drill the top end of the egg, what actually happens is, that the hole you create, goes off like a sawn off shotgun.

The egg blew up in Wayne’s face like a geyser. A explosive spray of clotted, rotten egg. It erupted into his face, all over his hair, chest and even into his mouth.

In fact most of his person received a generous dollop of rotten egg. Wayne did the only thing he could do, which was drop the egg and begin stumbling blindly around the barn, throwing up all over the shop. It was all in a effort to get as far away as possible from the smell of rotten egg, which, considering that it covered him,
was difficult in the extreme.

It was like attempting to run away from himself, whilst trying to rub egg from his eyes while falling over everything in his path, bent double, retching, with his toes curling in his egg covered boots.

Into this picture rushed Kerry, slightly frantic hearing the noise emanating from the barn, to see Wayne in his obvious distress, struck blind, heaving like it was terminal.

The first thing she did was begin shouting Wayne.

“Wayne! Wayne whats wrong!! Are you O-”

Then the smell hit her.

“Wayne! Oh jesus Christ! WTF is that smell Urrrrrgh! UUUURGH!!”

Only now it had turned into a vomiting and retching contest, as both of them wheeled away from the other trying to get away from the source of the smell. Only, the smell was everywhere. Rotten egg is unbelievably pungent. If you’ve ever smelt one you will know what I mean.

Only, this wasn’t a normal chicken egg. This was an egg of epic proportions. This was a Desperate-fucking-Dan size egg. An egg to end all eggs. This fucker had just blown up all over Wayne, who was now folded over in the opposite corner of the barn from Kerry, in the process of trying to lick his own arse, in an attempt to take away the taste of rotten egg. Anything, in fact, would have tasted better than what he was currently tasting and smelling.

Whilst across the room Kerry squinted through the tears streaming down her face shouting Wayne.

“UUUUUURGH! UUUUURGH!! Oh dear God Wayne! OH deeeeear Goooooooodddd!!!! UUURGH!! WTF have you done??”

I can’t really go on in good faith describing the retching contest that went on like tennis across the barn. The smell.(Jesus the smell) And the noise of the stomach churning hawking. Each one setting the other off like a couple vocal minefields. As one began heaving the other would then react accordingly and follow suit.

The only thing I can really add, is that the young niece and nephew are still waiting for they’re blown Ostrich eggs.

And the only way they’re like to get one is if they come over and blow one themselves.

Wayne has a drill set up, waiting to be used. Kids, come on over.