I’ve never understood the appeal of mud wrestling.
If there is anything alluring about being covered head to toe with filthy slime, it has utterly bypassed me. In fact, alongside bungee jumping (trust issues) and spelunking (claustrophobia), I could rank rolling in the mud (hygeine freak) amongst those things I would most certainly NOT like to do.
However. Not wanting to do something and NOT doing something are clearly two different things. And once again, I have my chickens to thank for dragging me unwillingly into an arena I would rather avoid. A couple weeks ago, it was the “let’s try to amputate a digit with a meat cleaver” arena, and this morning, it was mud wrestling. (Well, to be more precise, it was mud and poo wrestling…)
Anyone who has ever kept chickens will assure you that THEY. EAT. EVERYTHING.
Well, apart from nettles and mushrooms. And onion. But other than that… any hapless plant that has the audacity to poke a fresh green shoot above ground is fair game. The result of this foraging is a chicken pen completely and utterly denuded of all forms of plant life. The perfectly healthy patch of grass we built a fence around looks to have survived a nuclear winter.
Add to this several weeks of lovely British rain and varying degrees of drizzle, and what you are left with is a quagmire slicker than snot on a doorknob.
A fact I came up close and personal with this morning.
Way. Too. Personal.
I haven’t done the splits since high school, and I’m pretty sure I was wearing more clothes then.
Note to self: Don’t feed the chickens in your night gown.
I may never be clean again. Ever.
- feature photo: Shutterstock
- spelunking: jenolancaaves.org.au
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