The glow of satisfaction in which to bask at the end of a hard day’s work is as elusive to me as a pretty chicken. After living in the French countryside for some years I am as far from conceiving what sort of unbearable loneliness brought about the colloquialism of “poule” for a lady of easy virtue as I am from understanding the pleasure of honest toil. Chickens and beauty go together like a peach and carriage and you mostly certainly can, and should, have one without the other. Work and basking have no contiguity in my experience. I have seen London road menders make a liaison of such opposites seem as natural as breathing, but these are the Shaolin of manual workers and it would take a lifetime of leaning on a shovel to come near to that trance like version of labour. I have used up most of a lifetime so I feel it would be wiser to avoid labour altogether rather than fall short of that flawless paragon. Jenny has seen the holes in what I assumed to be a water tight argument which means that, rather than continuing my pleasurable and sedentary quest for the link between poultry and pulchritude, I am condemned to continuing the search for the hidden link between sanding and painting heavy wooden shutters in the bright sunlight of an Indian summer’s day and basking in the satisfaction of laborious drudgery. At least a “poule” isn’t on her feet all day.
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