Chicken run

I went to feed the new chickens, thinking that they would love some sweetcorn and raisins. The last lot went mad for that combo - this lot just looked at me blankly, then carried on fighting over a dead frog.
There seem to be two types of chicken. The five-a-day sort who think that a grape is the best thing since sliced bread, and the Velocireptor sort who gulp baby rats down whole.
Watching in disgust as these scrawny red-bottomed hens fought over the limp amphibian, I cast my mind back to a recent sunny afternoon in Suffolk, where well behaved chooks pecked raisins meekly from their master's hand, to cries of delight from our children.
It's like Big Brother 6 v Little Women.