Sitting at the kitchen table, a chicken wanders past the door. Oh, the little buggers have got out again, I think to myself, and wander out to deal with it.
My three girls are in their run, outraged at the interloper.
She is wandering about the garden, flaunting her freedom. I have no idea where she came from. None of the neighbours have chickens, there is a field round the corner where there are sometimes chickens but it's a bit of a walk, and would involve crossing two roads.