A little puzzle to fritter away those damp, dark November evenings.

[Tony Griffiths]

Oooo That is a surprise. Thanks both Tony and Mike.

As has been said before excellent sketch and, I think, a superb idea for the thread.  So when are you two going to hatch the next puzzle! Cheers from a rather chuffed. Howard

Congratulations Howard. If you PM me your address and let me know which books in "Workshop Series" numbered 1 to 49 you would like, I'll get them away to you. You could also choose the Amateur's Lathe and the Amateur's Workshop if you wish or, if there is another you would like that's more expensive, just give me a ring on 01298-871633 and I'll pro-rata the cost against one of those if you'd like to pay the balance.

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Thanks Tony, for dropping me in it! First of all you publish the picture without my knowledge,  and then expect me to pick up the pieces 
Now I'm going to hibernate until spring, in case Tony comes up with something else.

Thanks for taking it so well my old friend - a writing such a witty reply. The amusing thing about this is that, many years ago, Mike gave me a series of sketches as he completed them when in his early '20s and, unsurprisingly, could not at first remember doing some of them. I have to tell you all that he was modestly surprised that he had done them so well - but as he'd produced a brilliant painting of my two cats last year, it was no surprise to me at all. Of course, to his horror, I may have more hidden away to puzzle you with a little later.....
Don Rowarth's scrapyard was near Great Huklow and where every local marginal motorist went for parts. Sadly, it's now gone, closed twenty years ago by pressure from the middle-class incomers who run the Peak National Park. Almost invisible from any passing road, the yard was something of a treasure trove, always fun to explore and with insanely cheap parts. However, Don had other income, a little casual farming, selling Morris' Golden Film oils to local farmers and rebuilding starter motors and dynamos in a tumble-down shed, packed with what today would be highly-collectable, electrical paraphernalia from the vintage era.
It was said that if you took your rotten-as-a-pear, dropping-to-bits car at other than a walking pace down Don’s track, by the time you reached the farm entrance the car was ready to be left there. So, arriving very carefully one late afternoon in PL 3002, I spotted Don sitting on the steps of his shed. As I walked over he excused himself from conversation with a wave of the hand saying, "I'm gonna get us tea lad. Thee wait 'ere, it won't take a mo.”. He then picked up a pair of garden shears and headed towards the half-open barn door. What happened next was a mixture of horror and comedy for, upon reaching the door several chickens, realising what was about to happen (they are not as stupid as they look), fluttered, squawking out of the way with Don snapping at them with the shears. Moments later pandemonium broke out in the barn as hens fluttered wildly about trying to escape the dreaded hand-held guillotine (it's amazing how far a non-flying bird can fly when it tries). But this was all to no avail as,  moments later, Don emerged, somewhat covered in feathers, clutching a headless but still kicking chicken. "Like to see 'im run?" he queried. Taking my blank expression for acquiescence, he put the chicken on the ground which then did indeed (the chicken, that is, not the ground), proceed to run around at random. Pleased with this impressive performance of balance without a head, Don scooped up the unfortunate animal and handed it to his wife (who happened to be wearing one wellington boot and one slipper) for further treatment in the oven. The result now is that I can hardly bear to watch it when Chickens Run