I’ve just experienced the Miracle of the White Chicken!

Recently I was given a chicken. Opinion varies as to what this chicken is; some say it’s a magazine rack, but I see it as a garden ornament with flower pots in it.

It is, however, rather the worse for wear. No problem, now that I’ve found my inner Leonardo da Vinci I could see no reason why I should not paint it.

I betook myself (while we were still allowed) to various places where paint was available for purchase. I eventually lit on a suitable paint – the lid was white, and it had Exterior written on the outside of the tin, so I presumed that it was white paint suitable for painting on something that was exterior.

Of the multitude of white paints available to me I chose the smallest tin – it won’t need much, it’s a chicken, not a wandering albatross! I also bought a brush, an ordinary paint brush, not a top-of-the-range badger hair brush; this is a flower pot container, not the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The area of combat was the back terrace, specifically the top of the long defunct garden table. I put the chicken on the table, opened the paint pot with a screwdriver (is there any other way of opening paint tins?) gave the paint a stir with a honeysuckle twig, dipped the brush and applied it to the chicken.

No problem. The sun was out, the terrace was warm, I had a chair to sit on that was the exact right height for painting chickens on tables. All was right with the world. Enthusiastically I painted half the chicken, and gaily set out to turn the chicken round so that I could paint the other half.

Once more I dipped the brush, but as I raised it to apply its load of paint the chicken made a bid for freedom and toppled off the table. With the lightning reflexes of a sloth I caught it before it hit the ground. I replaced it on the table and surveyed the scene.

The chicken had 2 pristine white handprints on it and a liberal coating of white running in streaks down its red comb. The table was coated in a random splodge design of white, while the terrace tiles sported a fetching spray effect design in white. There was more paint on my hands than there was on the bird. But I wasn’t worried. The paint will wear off my hands eventually, I can paint over the comb with red, the table is going to the Great Furniture Store in the sky in any case, and I’m planning to have the terrace re-tiled, so no harm done.

Calmly I recommenced painting. So what was the Miracle?
There was paint everywhere – but not a spot on my clothes!

Now that is a Miracle!