Wilde About Chickens

Having been been asked to write a descriptive piece about a common activity, I chose one that has to be carried out every morning. The task is that of feeding the chickens. I decided that, as this is probably the most exciting thing that I do all day, and that my life is, therefore, worryingly uninteresting, I should attempt to make it sound less so to a reader. How would Oscar Wilde have carried out this task? Let's face it, Oscar Wilde would no doubt have had far more interesting things to do and philosophise over but just in case there was the slightest chance, I took on the role of Oscar himself. Not being in possession of a smoking jacket, I decided that my velour dressing gown would be the next best thing. Naturally I should have preferred a quilted one with a flamboyant pattern but I resolved to make the best of my Marks & Sparks attire. I strolled languidly through the door, flicking an imaginary cigarette in an equally imaginary holder.
I took a deep breath of the cold morning air and was quite thankful that the cigarette was imaginary, as the sharp air stung for several seconds before I was fully awake and ready for the charade. To get into character I decided to mince a little, instead of my usual purposeful stride. After all it was still practically dark and even on the slight chance that anyone was about they would probably not notice. Holding my elbows away from my body with my arms slightly raised I practically skipped across the lawn, leaving velvet brush stokes in the dew. At one point I even kicked my leg up behind me in the carefree manner of a Victorian beau. Yes I was really getting the hang of this. All that remains now is to think of something witty to say. As I leaned into the food bin to scoop pellets into the feeder I ventured "Women are like Chickens." The chickens, still in the shed at this point, were cawing in anticipation of this pearl from the great man himself. "They need their wings clipping regularly."
Rather poor I thought. Not really worthy of Wilde. Perhaps Shaw would have resorted to a cheap jibe like this but I was sure I could do better.
I began to caw back to the chickens, as is my wont. Would Wilde have done this I wondered. Of course he would. Probably much more flamboyantly than I, no doubt. I broke into a series of pock, pock, pocks just to prove a point. I opened the door. Hello chucklers, my usual greeting was wholly inappropriate today. "Good morning ladies," was my address.
I resolved to set the Wilde mind to the age old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg.
“Why it’s quite apparent”, I stated boldly. “It's whichever got laid first! “ I chortled a little, “Aheh, Aheh!”, in order to stimulate a thunderous applause from my audience. The chickens liked it. The brown one at the left side of the perch seemed to approve of my witticism. She murmered a little, then hopped off the perch and out through the door before turning her attention voraciously to the food pellet dispenser. The others followed. I paused to milk their contented crooning, trying my best to ignore the fact that the cockerel had one of them pinned to the floor, as if anxious to try out the theory as soon as possible.
“Women are like chickens,” I began again. But as I could only think of something crass and lewd, I decided to quit while I was ahead.
I looked in the nest box and removed two eggs, still warm. I held one in each hand and slowly absorbed the heat. Life had taken on a new meaning. This philosophy thing was worth pursuing.
Assuming my most ostentatious air, I strolled back to the house, nonchalantly turning my head this way and that in order to acknowledge the admiration of invisible onlookers from every quarter. As I strutted up the stone steps towards the back door I trod on the front of my dressing gown and stumbled forwards. Instinctively my hands shot forwards to prevent me hitting the stone, but neatly crushing the egg in each hand.
“Bugger!”, I exclaimed, the inclination to proclaim anything Wilde like having evaporated. I looked up and saw my neighbour looking over the fence and smirking to himself. “Morning,” he said drily and turned away before I could think of a Wildean repartee.
With the egg beginning to dry into a horrible sticky gel on my hands, I opened the door and entered the comparative warmth of the kitchen.
Washing my hands in the warm water at the sink, I pondered on the dismal failure of my venture. Never mind I thought. Perhaps tomorrow, Bruce Willis (vest and all) will be feeding the chickens.
“Yippee kai aye motherclucker!”