Because the chicks have little legs, and keep falling over, we progress in exceedingly short hops, with many stops. After many hours, the chicks still have not reached their parents and, because we are precariously behind schedule, I suggest that we leave the chicks, as they are slowing us down. Juan agrees, and adds that the chicks are probably some kind of chicken, the word ‘chick’, is a shortened version of 'chicken', he reasons, and chicks are short, and, he adds, if they were baby ducks they would be called ducklings, and if they were baby swans they would be called cygnets, and if they were baby owls they would be called owlets, but they aren’t, he insists, so they must be chickens. I tell Juan that I don’t know what he is talking about. He says that domestic fowl makes him nervous since, as a child, he spent his holidays at aunt Humperdink’s farm in Aberfeldy, where aunt’s chickens tried to steal his food, and now, he says, he doesn’t trust poultry.
As we are probably following chickens, and their trustworthiness is in doubt, we stop to discuss the problem. To help us think, Juan opens a barrel of Vintage Miltonduff, which we wash down with Balmenach Private Reserve. After some time, Juan says that, to help him think some more, he needs a chicken barbeque, that seems easy to arrange but, looking around, we can’t see the chicks and we realise that they are too far ahead for us to catch up.
Because we have lost track of the chicks, we decide to open a barrel of Vintage Tobermory, to help us consider the situation. To celebrate a good decision, we open a barrel of Vintage Glenburgie Special Reserve and, after offering toast after toast to the health, happiness and tastiness of all poultry, we flap around in panic-stricken circles, as fast as we possibly can.
Professor Humperdink’s Diary