How does a chicken?

Am thinking of writing a new book. It will not be fiction but will be brainy and philosophical in nature. It is because I seem to spend huge swathes of time trying to think up answers to increasingly ridiculous questions. For example:

  • How does a chicken know it is a chicken?
  • When I’m dead will my eyes be shut?
  • What is poo for?
  • Why don’t chickens have duvets?
  • What if I want a drink of water when I’m dead?
  • Why don’t cats wear pants?
  • How does Lola fit in the telly?
  • Why does bees not make Marmite?
  • Why is Afghanistan?
  • Why does the Eggheads always win?
  • Can I shoot water up Diver Dan’s bottom?

The trouble is I don’t the answers. I mean, how DOES a chicken know it is a chicken? I don’t even think ours does. It eats rich tea biscuits and pancakes, tries to nest on a doormat and flies. Even without the worrying slightly cannibalistic tendencies of eating egg-based products, what kind of creature is that? Ideas on a postcard please…

About Joanna Nadin

A former broadcast journalist and special adviser to the prime minister, since leaving politics I’ve written more than 80 books for children and adults, as well as speeches for politicians, and articles for newspapers and magazines like The Guardian, Red and The Amorist. I also lecture in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University, and hold a doctorate in young adult literature. I’m a winner of the Fantastic Book Award and the Surrey Book Award, and have been shortlisted for the Roald Dahl Funny Prize, the Booktrust Best Book award and Queen of Teen among others, and twice nominated for the Carnegie Medal, for Everybody Hurts, and for Joe All Alone, which is now a BAFTA-winning and Emmy-nominated BBC TV series. I've also worked with Sir Chris Hoy on the Flying Fergus series and ghost-written Angry Birds under another name. I like London, New York, Essex, tea, cake, Marmite, mint imperials, prom dresses, pubs, that bit in the West Wing where Donna tells Josh she wouldn’t stop for a red light if he was in an accident, junk shops, crisps, Cornwall, St Custard’s, Portuguese custard tarts, political geeks, pin-up swimsuits, the Regency, high heels, horses, old songs, my Grandma’s fur coat, vinyl, liner notes, the smell of old books, the feel of a velveteen monkey, Guinness, quiffs, putting my hand in a bin of chicken feed, the 1950s, burlesque, automata, fiddles, flaneuring, gigs in fields on warm summer nights, Bath, the bath.
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