A Complete Year of Chicken

We have been hen-keepers for a full year now. Last April, Mrs Bennett and Mrs Miggins arrived and took up residence in our lush, green of grass back garden. Then Mrs B, bless her, went to chicken heaven and in late October Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Polovitska (aka Mrs Poo) arrived and turned the last of the grass to mud.

But it's okay because in less than a year these 5 hens have provided us with 616 eggs (yes, I have been keeping count) which isn't bad going especially as Pumphrey, Poo and Slocombe didn't join in the laying until 5 months ago. We have learned a lot from our hens. We are au fait with chicken lady bits and chicken moods. We have discovered how chickens behave -like loonies, generally, althought they aren't nearly as bird-brained as the saying would have you believe. We know what they like (lettuce, grapes, pasta, swinging on the garden swing, trips in limousines and Jimmy Choo shoes) and what they don't (pigeons, rain, bare bottoms when the March winds are blowing and Alistair Darling because of his scary eyebrows).

And now Mrs Miggins is entering her second season, we are learning what happens to hens as they grow older. Of course, if Mrs Miggins was misfortunate enough to be a battery chicken, she would have been dispatched for cat food by now because she is more than a year old. Instead, she is free to continue living her life and displaying 'older chicken' behaviour.

Two things I have noticed about Miggo. One is broodiness and two is peculiar eggs.

'What's wrong with my eggs?' says Miggo.
'Well,' I say, thinking carefully because I don't want to offend my best girl and the eggs are still excellent for eating, 'they are starting to look rather, er, novel these days, aren't they?'
'Meaning?' says Miggo.
'Meaning, well, the unusual shapes, for example,' I say, thinking about the one I collected this morning which wouldn't have looked out of place in a potato sack.
'It's art,' says Mrs Miggins. 'As you get older, you gain freedom from the perfection of youth. You can start being a bit more creative.'
'And eggcentric?' I say.
'Don't start making egg jokes,' Mrs Miggins warns.
'And does this art eggtend to the texture of the shells?' I continue, foolishly ignoring her warning.

Miggo's egg shells have taken on a chalky consistency. I've upped the amount of grit and oyster-shell in her feed, which she carefully picks out and discards.

'Yes,' says Miggo. 'I have been experimenting with a variety of textures. Gritty, mosaic, bobbles, fur...'
'Fur?' I say. 'I haven't found any furry eggs.'
'I only experimented once with fur,' Miggo admits, 'it was a bit tickly coming out and I don't want you humans thinking laying an egg every day is a laughing matter.'
'And you've been a bit erratic with your ovulation these last two weeks,' I say. 'Two one day, nothing for another two, then regular, then nothing again...'
'You're a fine one to lecture on erratic ovulation,' huffs Miggo. 'I can't help it, can I? Unless you want to get me a course of HRT?'
'HRT?'
'Hen Rejuvenation Therapy,' she says. 'It's by L'oeufreal' and it's very expensive but I'm worth it.'

And recently there have been a couple of occasions when I've gone to collect the eggs and have had to prise Mrs Miggins from the nest where she has been crouching over them like a ginger hovercraft, clucking motherly and giving me a bit of a warning look as I open the pod.
'What are you doing?' I asked when I saw her do this for the first time.
'I'm having babies,' she said. 'So kindly close the pod and come back in three weeks.'
'You are not having babies,' I said, rooting under her tummy for the eggs. 'You need a cock to have babies.'
'That's a common pre-feminist myth,' snapped Miggo. 'Shame on you, daughter of the Thatcher revolution.'

Blimey, I think, retreating but not without the day's eggs, she is turning broody and then some.

And just to finish, here is a piccie of the eggs of today. I'll let you decide which is the work of art...