Don't count your chickens.

I've been looking forward to the scritch-scratch of chickeny feet. 10 days to go, the clock's counting down, tick tock.

This grumpy young bird couldn't be dissuaded from going broody so I scrubbed out a coop, sat her on on a clutch of Maran and Wellsummer eggs, sat back and awaited 'hatch-day'.
Hmm, the best laid plans of mice and hens/men have gone awry. She obviously had second thoughts about motherhood, because yesterday morning I found her clucking at the pop-hole, desperate to get out, get a life. Chickens? Who wants chickens? The eggs were stone cold and probably only fit for throwing at politicians. Bummers. Interpret that as you will.

I chucked her back in with her fellows and chucked the eggs onto the compost heap, cracking each open to see what might have been ..... of the 14, one had mysteriously disappeared, 1 was not fertile, 6 had stopped developing fairly early on and 6 had recognisable chicks. Bit gruesome really, but now I know.

I've scrubbed out the coop again and scrubbed myself free of the itchiness that an old nest seems to suggest; lice, mites and creepy crawlies....ugh. Is the world ready to know I wore an old shower cap to do the job? Looked a prat? Thank goodness passers-by are thin on the ground up here.

I await the next hen opportunity. I think...