Chicken tale

Our neighbours raise fighting cocks, at least that's what I deduce from the fragments of virile-looking feed packets that occasionally blow into our garden. It's one of many wholesome pastimes that make them fine examples of the species.

The cocks' raucous dawn chorus wakes me up earlier than would be ideal most mornings, but when I look out over the unkempt field and see them crying out from solitary confinement in enclosures that amount to little more than rooster cosies, I can't feel anger towards them. It's directed elsewhere.

Time for another of my uplifting stories.

Substantialreads: Novirginiawoolfember

I make no apologies for taking affirmative action and dedicating this month to a woman author to help boost my sexist stats. However - you'll want to prepare yourself for a shock - it's an author I wanted to read more from anyway (and to properly read the ones I lazily skim-read at university, despite liking them. I found it harder to read three books a week back when I was actually supposed to).

Anyway, I love the modernists and Woolf is less heavy-going than Joyce. Or seemed so back when I wrote this optimistic intro anyway, I'll see how it goes.