One month ago I took possession of three ex-battery chickens who are now contentedly pecking away on my roof in central London, writes Julia Stephenson

 

Many people assume one must be living in a rural idyll to keep livestock, and are surprised to hear that chickens are roosting within clucking distance of Peter Jones. But I say why not? Chickens are far lower maintenance than cats or dogs, plus they provide us with at least one egg a day.

I was originally concerned that a roof might not be the ideal place to keep them. Hens like to scratch dirt and kick up in flower beds. But when I explained a lady at the Battery Hen Rescue Trust that I could offer a Bernie Inn, not a Ritz Carlton, she was adamant that I go ahead. `They’re ex battery hens and have been used to appalling conditions, so I imagine after 2 years of Alcatraz, a Bernie Inn would be chicken heaven’.

And so we went ahead. I contacted the nearest representative of the charity who lives in Epsom, and on a designated weekend we drove down with 3 old cardboard boxes in which to transport our hens home. The charity liaises with battery farms throughout the country and when the chickens are about 2 years old, and producing fewer eggs they are either slaughtered, or hopefully collected by Battery Hen Trust representatives in a large van. They are dropped off in a member’s garden and people like me arrange to come along and take them home. It’s a terrific system. 

 

Not surprisingly, given their wretched lives at the battery farm, the hens were not in the best condition. Two had bald patches on their necks and bottoms, but happily one was generously feathered and very confident.

 

We had given some thought to providing them with a suitable dwelling. My inamorato extended a guinea pig house with chicken wire, creating a 2 foot run. At first we had a wooden floor, but chickens mess on everything, even their food, so we put down newspaper. This created even more mess and my cleaner, whose family keep chickens in the Philippines, suggested we put down chicken wire. The mess would then slip through the wire onto the wood, which could be cleaned up (not by me I hasten to add, I am fortunate that my inamorato has taken it upon him to be the Chicken Comptroller and Shoveller-up-in-Chief).

 

But once the beastly wire was down I began to feel for my girls. I worried that the wire might dig into their admittedly dinosaur-like feet and they’d find it uncomfortable. And although my cleaner offered practical chicken husbandry tips, when she confessed her brother bred cocks for cock-fighting, I was concerned that welfare issues might not be uppermost in her mind. So I insisted that the Chicken Comptroller remove it and replace it with turf, only £3.99 a roll, from B and Q.

 

The girls are much happier on grass, and if we toss them a few cabbage leaves (their favourite treat) they are in seventh heaven.  However the turf has only been down 2 days so I’m not quite sure how long-lasting it will be.

 

As I write, the hens are becoming more confident and healthier every day. The bald patches are being replaced by soft down, which bodes well.

Not everyone is as keen on the idea of keeping hens in the city though. After a positive interview in the Evening Standard last week I was castigated as a `green extremist’, by a contributor to the message boards. Another grumbled, `The English upper classes have always been keen on portraying themselves in an eccentric light. It's just attention seeking and should not be encouraged, although I realise she is not actually harming anyone’.

Watch out! 

Read the full Evening Standard article here