A SHORTAGE of freezer space has given the ducks a reprieve. Their feathers do not mingle with those of the geese in the trail of fluffy down from goose hut to meal shed. Instead, the Aylesburys are to be allowed another few weeks of eating up any remaining pansies that I planted in the stone troughs around the yard. They are not as endangered as the Muscovy ducks, however, who persist in trying to scratch the bonnet of my car in their unsuccessful attempts to roost on its roof.

John's concerned that the ducks will pine at the demise of the geese and lose weight. However, a think-tank on duck psyche (ie me) has reported back that they seem to have lost none of their enthusiasm for domestic waste and continue to flock to the kitchen window whenever a handful of stale bread, soft biscuits or vegetable peelings is thrown in the general direction of the paddock.

A secondary reason for their survival is that granddaughter Jessica will be here for the Christmas period and she is inordinately fond of the ducks. The key element of her toddles round the farmyard is to chase them, and then she appears baffled about why they don't come to her when she has a change of heart and offers them something to eat. She says a few words, but 'ucks and 'ogs are comprehensible.

I have bought new baby Oliver a hammock to sleep in at the farmhouse. Bryony and Chris do not have any pets and so the baby is not in any risk of being trampled underfoot by enthusiastic dogs, or selected as a comfortable mattress by a heat-seeking cat. Our kitchen has an old pine ceiling, and the little hammock can be hung from the meat hooks that are embedded in beams. That way, Oliver swings out of reach of the dogs and cats, and, as a bonus, is draught-free too.

The final preparation for Christmas was to sweep the chimney in the far sitting room so that, if the overspill of visitors needed somewhere to escape television and babies, a fire could be lit without fear of smoking them out. There is a wood-burning stove in the fireplace which, in the past, has been abused by the burning of green logs. So not only does it have a tendency to smoke when lit, but it also has the power to imbue the house with acrid fumes after a storm, when the rain re-soaks the creosote-lined flue as it pours down the open chimney.

No longer. Yesterday, I was astounded to see a tractor driving slowly towards the side of the house with two of the very large straw bales balanced on the fork lift. Delicately manoeuvring the bales, John rammed them up against the wall, just below the guttering. He and Geoff then used the bales as a base to climb over the roof tiles with a roof ladder and fit a cowl to the offending chimney pot.

Utilising more modern technology, my part of the proceedings was to stand outside of the house, with my mobile phone, and ring through when the chimney brush appeared out of the chimney pot once chimney sweeping commenced. Several minutes on and no brush. Then a few twigs began to rise from the depths. Followed by a whole nest. Then the chimney brush. With a twist and a shake, the brush shed the nest, which fell clean off the roof and onto the top of my car. Startling a duck.

Warning. Never ever buy a used Volvo from a farmer's wife.

Updated: 11:30 Wednesday, January 07, 2004