Getting the hen horrors in Tesco: I have just been shopping (crunch crunch crunch over crisp snow sparkling in bright sunshine) and spotted the hugest, absolutely eNORmous free range chickens I've ever seen in my life. Those birds looked like they belonged to another age, or had been bred and trained as Special Forces combat chooks but had failed the final, crucial survival test. I didn't dare buy one. For one thing, I'd need a larger oven, a roasting tin the size of a zinc bath, and a chainsaw to carve. For another, even when dead, those chickens were just plain intimidating. Cowed, I tiptoed away and bought some spinach; that wouldn't be capable of rearing up and pecking my eyes out.
After finishing my unexciting shopping, I squelched back to the car through streams and pools of slush, the bright sunshine having worked its special magic on the crisp sparkling snow, and went home.
And observed that the cats and dog looked - well, just like dinky little canapes, elegantly bite-sized.