I took to hens like a duck takes to a rain barrel. I'm no expert, I'm not even a gifted amateur, I'm more of an enthusiastic experimenter. For three years I've been trying to keep the hens and still have a pretty garden. The hens kept winning. For a start, they ate all my young forget-me-not plants and grazed the primroses down to lumps. Strangely, when the hens moved on, the plants came back better than ever. Hen poo? I think so.  

I tried hen runs on the back lawn, but the hens made the lawn go bald. I tried a little row of charming hen houses in the front garden, but the hens overflowed them. I tried a long pen down the side of my garden, but they got among the veg and ate all my young broccoli. But when, having cleared the front garden of everything they fancied they turned to my pots of beautiful geraniums, stripping away all the flowers and leaves, I knew I needed a strategy.

Now, we have a truce. They have the back garden and I have the front garden. The back garden gets more sun, that's where the patio is. The hens appreciate these features. When they want me they peck at the french windows and I scuttle out to see what they need. Yes, you see, we have reached a sensible arrangement.

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