Has been playing the game of “beat the hen to the gooseberry”. Entertaining if a little prickly. As I removed the cage from my burgeoning gooseberry bush, all the hens, who until then had been strutting around it and beadily eyeing up the reddening fruit, rushed forward in a wave of feathers and squawking to get their grubby little beaks on the lovely ripe crop. Even my sulky, broody Lacy Wynadotte, who refuses to get out of bed for anything or anyone, came along to check out the fuss and suddenly discovered her turbo charge as she managed to flappingly levitate herself to come eye to eye with me over the top of the bush.