Life & Death

It’s been a polarised kind of day.

Hubby attended the military funeral of one of his friends.

I have been up since 5am attempting to watch the chicks hatch out, and doing badly. I thought the first little guy was stuck, so helped him out myself. I went back to bed for an hour at 8am, convinced that no more action was imminent. I expect the second chick erupted from his shell the moment I left the room; his chirrups had a faintly triumphant air to them. I began to wonder if hatching was something that poultry like to do in private. Call of nature, type o’ thing. Something like peeing behind a hedge when you’re out for a long walk.

I watched the pip holes like a suspicious hawk for the next 3 hours, in vain. I then left for a long-booked lunch date with a friend (lest you think me a lady wot lunches, let me assure you I can easily go a year or more between these oases) and arrived back home fractious, Harry having roared and misbehaved in the restaurant. I was unsurprised to see chick number three had shyly emerged from his shell in my absence.

The fourth waited until I was putting Harry to bed.

Five and Six are poking little beaks out of their pip holes, and still aren’t ready to commit. It’s nearly my bedtime and I am vaguely considering taking the incubator to bed, but I fear Hubby would make Remarks.

Mrs Brahma (a supposedly placid breed) should be proud: all three of her chicks are intermittently pecking hell out of one another and the Orpington already.

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