The girls are laying. The rain has fallen. Everything is right with the world.

This morning Ms Tagalong squeezed into the garden past all the verdant growth and had to let out the chickens although it wasn’t her turn. They were very vociferous, indignant even, at letting even the shortest micro-second of daylight pass without them being outside the coop.

Scrabbling to get out, the heaped through the door and fell out, racing toward a bountiful heap of scraps that some kind soul had posted over the fence.

They scratched and clucked, tossed and rummaged.

Ms Tagalong’s keen eye spotted some eggshells amongst the pickings and thought a moment of education was in need.

The chickens will eat their own eggs if they get into the habit so it is wiser not to put the halved eggshells in whole, if you take Ms Tagalong’s meaning. Best recipe is to bake them in the oven when you are baking something else on a low light and then crush them as finely as possible and chuck over the fence for them to scratch at. Hey presto, our very own grit without any expense!

p.s. if you are wondering why there is the Great Fence of China erected between the smaller and larger run it is because Ms Tagalong has sowed some green mulch seeds for the girls and our black wonder (chicken not sheep) keeps flying over and tasting the protruding seedlings. Not yet!

It's great to have some feedback, so please leave me some comments.

The new ladies!

I have been sending such good waves of love and affection to the new chickens. I have been trying to make them understand that they are in a lovely, friendly new run with plenty of loving care and fresh food every day. The six little ladies were left outside the garden in a very small pen and obviously felt a little unsure of developing relationships with our four who in no uncertain terms were establishing the new pecking order.

Well, actually I have been harbouring murderous thoughts as not one seems to have laid an egg yet! Thoughts of cooking pots, chicken soup or coq au vin float around with the universe of love. I fear the gift may well be six chickens who have lived out their useful egg-laying lives and were in need of a sanctuary.

Personalities are slow to rise. Our poor black sheep, the white hen, seems to lose an inordinate amount of feathers around the run and in the pen. Anyone out there need a new doona? Ms Mova and I went in last night to check the little darlings were locked up. The second pen's door had fallen shut during the windy day and through the gloaming I was sure I counted ten hens in the big pen. They were sat on perches, scrunched up on top of the laying boxes and answered me sleepily when I talked to them. Actually two were absent. Ms Chicken Expert was concerned that when she went in this morning to let them out, two were happily getting an early start on any delivered scraps and careless insects. Ms Mova and I mulled this over and wondered why they hadn't come racing up to us the night before. We think they must have cuddled up together in the tiny pen the six new ones arrived in. They have taken to laying in there, a clear sign that they are the chief chicks.

Think omelettes, Ms Tagalong, not chicken soup!