Tilda was up and about when I came downstairs this morning.
Today's Tildy-bombs were much bigger than yesterday's, although still small for a well chicken. Happily there were only two.
I've had to put moisturing handwash (instead of scented) in the downstairs cloakroom, as my hands are suffering a bit from the constant thorough washing. The toilet roll and Dettox are permanent fixtures on top of her cage.
After Tilda had some breakfast, I opened the back door. There is a fierce and cold wind gusting outside, and no sensible chicken would want to be out in it. The other Girls were sheltering under a shrub. Still, I tried.
As usual, I walked Tilda towards the door, one of my legs either side of her body. When we got to the doorway she stuck her neck out and stood for ages. I pushed a bit, and waited for her to turn round and run through my open legs. She didn't. She stayed put. And then - plop! She jumped out of the door.
It was like watching a cartoon, as she waddled, feathers streaming, round to the side of the planter out of the wind. I called her, but she ignored me. I left the door open (in case she changed her mind), and put the coffee machine on.
And then I watched her crossing the path, feathers streaming, trying to reach the hen pen. When she got to the netting, I went outside and lifted her over - the other side of the Pampas to where the bullies were sheltering.
I hope she's going to be OK.