A guinea fowl, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is a gallinaceous bird with slate-coloured white spotted plumage, domesticated in Europe.

It also has a pretty red and white head, an endearing call which seems to be saying 'comback-comeback' and from the rear a gaggle of them appear to be performing a haphazard corps de ballet from Swan Lake.

However, those of us who have succumbed to keeping these birds will know they are also flighty, quarrelsome, desperately bad mothers, prone to perching on farm implements and pooping on the seats, emitting when disturbed a most shrill horrible raucous noise, and domesticated they are definitely not.

They can gain great heights to roost in trees by a series of short upward flying hope but are reluctant to fly freely and are totally incapable of making a controlled landing. The only time I saw one attempt to fly it reminded me of a Spanish galleon trying to fly by its sails.

My 13 ginnybods (as they are known locally) were tolerated for quite some time, well their eggs are delicious - if you can find them. Then they took to going walkabout up the village, causing near accidents to curious tourists who didn't know what they were, and using neighbour's gardens as dusting bowls. The final straw came when a very smart neighbour of immaculate house and garden, came to the door and asked if I could stop my 'turkeys' playing on his thatched roof as they were pulling bits out. The sentence was pronounced - my ginnybods must go.

Gamekeepers love ginnybods. It seems they live with the pheasants, roosting with them at night, and if a poacher or fox so much as looks at the woods they set up their awful screeching, warning the gamekeeper - and half of the district - that foul deeds are afoot in the pheasant pens. So the solution was obvious, and my ginnybods went to live with the local gamekeeper, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

But enough of ginnybods - George was supposed to buy a Christmas tree two days before Christmas. His wife was working late and he had been entrusted with this task.

"It's the only thing you have to do for Christmas," she said, "you menfolk get off lightly."

George had fully intended to buy the tree, but he'd had some sheep out in the morning and needed to do some fencing. Then an animal feed rep called in the afternoon and, before he knew it, the shops in Kirkmuckle had closed.

He was severely reprimanded that evening. His children had long faces as they had planned to decorate the tree, and his wife threatened him with unimaginable horrors if he didn't get a tree first thing next day.

Full of good intentions, George finished the milking next morning and was about to depart to the shops when his cousin and family, whom he'd not seen for years, arrived unannounced with cards and presents.

George would have been churlish not to offer them coffee, and then they got to reminiscing and looking at old photos. Eventually, three hours later, they went on their way and before he set off for the shop, George took a quick look round his cows as he knew one was near to calving.

To his horror, he found her in the advanced stages of labour, but the calf was in the wrong position and he could not straighten it alone. So he had to call the vet, and between them they delivered the calf, rubbed it with straw to get its circulation going, and then stood in quiet satisfaction and watched it have its first feed.

"That's a good job done," said the vet, "better get on, it's nearly surgery time."

George watched the vet's car receed with sinking heart - he'd done it again; the shops were shut, it was Christmas Eve, and he had no tree. He looked at the kitchen clock, he had about an hour to find one before the family came home.

Basically, George was an honest man. He'd never taken anything that was not his in his whole life; but he remembered the Forestry Commission were thinning out some little pine trees just along the lane from the farm and - needs must when the devil drives - he decided there and then he would have to steal one.

By now it was dark, but a full moon sailed above him as he sneaked down the lane carrying a pair of heavy-duty bolt-cutters, the first thing he could find to cut down the tree.

The lane ran along the top of a steep hill on the slopes of which the little trees were planted. At the bottom of the hill, beyond the trees, was the hamlet of New Wath. George could see the lights of the houses just below and hear a band playing carols.

Peering over the tree tops, he could just make out Kirkmuckle brass band in the centre of the houses, enthusiastically rendering O Come All Ye Faithful to the handful of people who had braved the cold to come out and listen.

"At least nobody will hear me above that," he thought, as he knelt down and pressed the open bolt-cutters against the stem of the nearest pine tree. Cautiously, he closed the handles together and with a satisfying click the little tree started to fall into George's waiting arms; rudely awakening the ginnybod which had been roosting in the top of it and which now fell out screeching loudly and embarked on a flakering, hesitant, tree-top-skimming flight down the slope towards New Wath. The rest of the flock joined in the chorus and George sprang to his feet just in time to see the ginnybod, squawking and wobbling, disappear in a cloud of feathers straight down the open mouth of the band's euphonium, the impact taking the euphonium player by surprise and causing him to sit down unceremoniously and his instrument to shoot off clattering along the stones into the darkness.

There was a bit of panicky shouting. Two women screamed, the remaining 12 ginnybods kept up their unholy squawking and George tucked his tree under his arm and fled. He had just got into the kitchen when he heard his wife's car come into the farmyard. He stood the tree in a corner and pretended nonchalantly to be making himself a cup of tea.

"Good old dad," said his daughter, "I knew you'd get us a tree."

His wife took hold of it by the tip and turned it round.

"It's a nice shape as well," she commented "and isn't it fresh, it smells lovely. You've done well to get one as fresh as this, they're usually dropping needles by Christmas Eve."

Then she added: "I don't know what's going on down our lane, but when we came in them ginnybods were raising hell and there was a right commotion going off over New Wath way."

George cupped the steaming tea mug in his still shaking hands and smiled. "It'll be a fox, I'll bet. They were saying there's a lot about just now."

Updated: 12:46 Monday, December 29, 2003