Pamela Shropshire’s Reviews > Love Among the Chickens > Status Update

[I love how Ukridge had promised mountains of eggs to all the grocers long before he ever got the chickens. Definitely counting his chickens!!!]

I had a vision of an eggless London. I seemed to see homes rendered desolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires bidding against one another for the few rare specimens which Ukridge had actually managed to despatch to Brompton and Bayswater. 😂

…my mind ranged idly over large subjects and small. I thought of love and chicken-farming. I mused on the immortality of the soul and the deplorable speed at which two ounces of tobacco disappeared.

… A Bolshevist hen, always at the bottom of any disturbance in the fowl-run, a bird which ate its head off daily at our expense and bit the hands which fed it by resolutely declining to lay a single egg.

… sunny morning, of the kind which Providence sends occasionally, simply in order to allow the honest smoker to take his after-breakfast pipe under ideal conditions. These are the pipes to which a man looks back in after years with a feeling of wistful reverence, pipes smoked in perfect tranquility, mind and body alike at rest. (Think Merry & Pippin after the fall of Isengard.) 🥰

He had a persuasive way with him, and the tradesmen seemed to treat him like a favourite son. The things began to pour in from all sides, – groceries, whiskey, a piano, a gramophone, pictures. Also cigars in great profusion. He was not one of those men who want but little here below.

That a girl should look as pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence to read Me . . . well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of the excellencies.

Shrill cries echoed down the platform. Lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushed to and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in search for seats.

…sinking his voice to a whisper almost inaudible on the other side of the street…😆😆😆

There was the click of the latch. A volume of sound rushed up the stairs.

‘Is Mr Garnet in? Where is he? Show me the old horse. Where is the man of wrath? Exhibit the son of Belial.’

There followed a violent crashing on the stairs, shaking the house.

‘Garnet! Where are you, laddie? Garnet!! GARNET!!!!!’

Stanley Featherstone Ukridge was in my midst.
😂😂😂

I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.