Boy! I say, boy! Let's buy a chicken suit!

One of the greatest humiliations I ever had in the workplace was when I dressed up as a carrot on the streets of Bradford to advertise the veggy cafe at the art gallery I was shirking in. I rapidly got a lesson in the joys of Yorkshire plain speaking. How I craved a proper job after that.

I mention that as when I navigated towards this I thought the chicken suit was something to be worn by humans: but oh, no - this is a suit for chickens:

"Austrian Edgar Honetschlaeger said he decided to work with the Japanese on the project because he hoped to make the chicken label clothing essential. He said 'It's something that you don't really need but everyone wants to have anyway'."

Clothing for chickens: for the Rhode Island Red in your life. Brian Friedkin would approve.

By the way, in a bit of a diversion (and this is SO not safe for work) I was looking through the aforementioned Mr Friedkin's site when I found some pictures of my old back garden (Brian was my next-door neighbour, and we shared a garden space). The thing is, all the pictures have a lady in advanced stages of undress, flashing pink bits everywhere.

I feel odd.

Still, it's a nice garden. It has some nice bushes, anyway.