A neat chicken coop appeared in our backyard. It came by mail in thousand pieces without assembling instructions. It looked like a mission impossible: How to put the pieces together so that it ends up being a livable home for chickens?

I was wrestling my hands and cursing the chicken coop manufacturer. While I went upstairs to get more coffee, my housemate Donna assembled the coop. In a heartbeat. And she is even not of the Ikea-generation, nor is she Swedish.

Some people just have it, the skill for assembling and putting the right piece to its place. I can’t even match the right lid with the right Tupperware. How should I know when the lid just needs to be forced into its place, or whether the lid is a wrong one?

Thanks to Donna, we have an assembled neat little chicken home in our backyard. It is like a small bungalow.

It is a little step in the Mission, but a big step in our chicken project.

We? Our? Yes, the chicken project is not mine only. Actually, it is not mine at all. The idea is originally my housemate Donna’s, who is the best housemate ever.

She is as close to normal as anyone can be. And I am not, so we are a good match. We have something in common though: we like oatmeal. My oatmeal is drier than hers, but in the big scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter.

Why didn’t I mention Donna in the beginning? Because I’m an egotist. In this case, I guess, I had better say: Eggotist.