Quail diary

Frame of Italian bees with queen (dead centre)

There’s a Neet in the house; every home should have one.  Windows sparkle. The fridge and freezer are appetising again. Stairs get hoovered and toilets cleaned, even when I’m out at work. Oh joy.

Senior Teen – the UK government’s Neet in question (young person Not in Employment, Education or Training) – has been busy, applying for jobs and earning her keep with a housewifely zeal she’s kept well hidden for 18 years. Her room, which usually resembles the kind of municipal landfill site you see pictures of small ragged children picking over in the third world, is spotless. The mounds of clothes and dirty crockery have been hung up or brought down, and if every book and film in the house worth reading or watching hasn’t quite yet found its way back to the livingroom shelves – ah, well, two out of three ain’t bad.

Seeing her, pink in face wiping tiles and wash basins, hair tied up and hands dirty, has been a delight. Some evenings she does it spontaneously (“I’ve discovered I rather like having a clean bathroom,” she says, snottily.)  Yes, of course it’s costing. But with exams over, school out forever and Himself a notoriously soft touch with the folding stuff, we’d be supporting her anyway until she manages to find a job and this way at least I’m reaping some benefit. Only problem is she’s started bullying the rest of us not to be such slobs…

So, I’ve mucked out the loft, and the quail hutch, and taken a machete to the front garden. The shed remains on the critical list. The lawn has whiskers. But hey.

Amid all the frenzied cleaning, the quail hutch offers light relief. Glenda’s nose has healed – though there’s still a lump there. Oeuf’s feathers are growing back. Dick’s quieter. Someone is laying completely white eggs. Nugget still lurks by the door, biding her time. And they’ve all taken up flying, hurling themselves tail over tip into roof and wire like exploding balls of feathers but with undented composure. I found Emmet happily ensconced in an open feed sack a metre off the floor yesterday. She was quite put out when I moved her.

Spaceman - or boil-in-the-bag beekeeper overalls, just the thing for a scorching noon in July

Bantam Neighbour’s house appears an oasis of tranquillity by comparison. On her balcony, apricots ripen and fall. Tortoise, cats and hens are well, and the beeman turned out to be a gobsmacking sixfooter (what was I expecting, something round and furry?) who dismantled the hive and lifted out the spreading frames of comb with unhurried grace, checking on the health of the little colony. There was no stinging or zooming about. The bees were far too busy. By next year, if they survive the winter, there should be 40,000 of them, the beeman happily told Mrs Nextdoor. Oh dear. Turns out not everyone is beguiled, little orange knickerbockers or no. Now the neighbourhood is humming.

(“What are they humming?” asks Chris P Byrd. ”The Bee Gees? Killers? – Sting?”).

400 quail eggs!