Chick Chick Chick Chick Chicken

The last week has passed in a blur of study, socialising and Ikea furniture building (I could have paid someone to do the building for me - but where's the challenge in that?). Our visitors arrive at 10:30 tonight and I think we are almost ready. They have a mammoth journey: Northern Ireland to Dublin, Dublin to Abu Dhabi, three hours in Abu Dhabi and then on to Singapore. I am sure they are going to be extremely tired when they arrive, so we want to make sure that they can just crash and then relax for the first few days of their journey. Friends have lent us all sorts of things for my nephew, including a travel cot and lots of toys. I think he is going to have a great holiday - even if he doesn't remember it! Anyway, this is where they will be chilling out:

On the socialising front, we have been busy entertaining friends new and old, which has been fun. I decided to do a 'mid-week' roast last Wednesday (inspired by my friend Sarah), so after my course finished late, I hot-footed it to the supermarket to buy potatoes, chicken and salad. Although I am a closet vegetarian, I am not normally too squeamish around raw meat. So when I got home, I unpacked the chicken, noted that it was extremely fresh as it had been killed that day and checked its innards to see if there were any giblets I should be aware of. As I placed the bird back on the chopping board, I was dismayed to see a small, white, ghostly head (with one eye) looking up at me. Dry-heave. A moment of indecision: do I wait for Tim to deal with this (which would mean eating later) or do I pull myself together and hack it off? As I got our biggest knife and something to cover the head with, I made an immediate resolution to become a full-blown vegi, out and proud (I have since reneged on that - it was the salami pizza we ate last night, I couldn't resist). I was particularly disturbed that this ghostly head had earlier in the day had been full of feathers, running around clucking! I can't believe that something could go from alive to completely and utterly dead and plucked within a day. When he was carving, Tim kindly showed me the feet (thankfully I didn't see those when I put it in the oven), which looked like small, shrivelled grandma hands. Bleurgh.

I realise that this story shows me up to be the cosseted city girl that I am, but I guess I was just a little shocked. We don't serve our meat like that back home! I don't want to see head or feet or eyes! Two big white breasts and a couple of legs is enough for me...although I'm not sure that sounds quite right right...