Huge day at the home farm. Palm Beach, the mid-century style hen shack, has seen its first eggs. No need for the planned lessons in nest box use. We can give away those scavenged golf balls – these savvy youngsters have no need of ersatz eggs to tell them what to do where. Noble failure is our usual thematic here, but I do love it when a plan comes together.
The question is: who laid those eggs?
When I heard someone down in the chook yard doing the egg song a couple of days ago, I assumed it was our brilliant but erratic – well, just erratic – veteran layer, Snowball the Silky Bantam. But is this egg the work of a bantam? Yes, it is small compared to the ostrich eggs we’ve been buying from the shops lately, but small enough to be Snowball’s? And what of those suspicious dark feathers? Perhaps some eggsperts out there can advise us (sorry!).
Could it be that at seven months old Abbey the Barnevelder is all grown up? Should we be getting out the red bunting and throwing her a full moon party? Only round-the-clock viewing of Chicken TV will tell us for sure.