Summer days of slow

When the afternoon sun starts to slowly come down on days of summer holidays the unmade bed looks a tempting way to fill a quick hour.  A cat nap on a sunny day feels guilty of laziness when the laundry basket overflows and dinner is still unconsidered.  The freezer drawer once wrenched open raises more questions than answers as I ponder what species are frozen in time in their plastic containers. Can I rely upon any of it to thaw into something appetizing or have we got the fishing bait mixed up with the flathead again. It's the best time of year to take up a slower pace and grind down to a near halt.  The vacuum cleaner can sit idle for a few more days and clothes won't be ironed until needed.  Supermarket shopping will be avoided at all costs with make do meals and home versions of essentials.  My fashion attire for this time of year is a stylish combination of the comfortable but tragic look teamed with a what on earth was she thinking with matching clapped out runners carrying enough dirt to grow a geranium out of the toes. The sun is casting a shadow and it's almost time for a cold glass of something to reward myself for doing, well nothing really. 

You can't start a diet in December

Christmas day.  Tick.  Good crockery washed and put away.  Tick.  Visitors out on a tour.  Tick and Smiley Face.  A quiet moment and appropriate weather for a batch of Sally Wise Soda Water Scones.  So light when they come out of the oven they need a tea towel on top to stop them flying off the tray.  After yesterday's scorcher with every window open for a whisper of breeze in any direction, the morning brings steady rain and enough low cloud to hide the local hills.  The Christmas rush dispersed to the fridge with the severed ham and cold plum pudding, we tell ourselves we're right for food for a while, at least until lunchtime.  Festive food, a major contributor at this time of year rolls over any attempts at sugar free, low carb or just plain healthy living. Conversations of who's on what medication and new diet promises are soon softened by the whipped, poured out, salty and crunchy.  The period between Christmas and New Year like a food and drink amnesty of anything goes before the cold harshness of January's resolutions begins. So it's not enough that we're good for Santa but now only 6 more sleeps until we have to be good for ourselves.  Pass the cream please.

Santa Spud

We've picked potatoes and Christmas is nearly here.  The ham is on its way and Bing is on the i-phone on repeat..and repeat.  "Dashing through the snow..".  The dreaded supermarket car park is like a game of chess for the boldest and bravest ready to make their move the minute you look into your rear vision mirror.  No more smiles, or waves of it's ok you can cut in, it's guns drawn and trolley's at dawn.  Customers once the slow browsers of the cheese aisle will happily push you face first into the fridge for the last selection of brie.  The faces of well used celebrities appear on boxes and packaging inviting you to share in their effortless wares with promises of shiny results and more time to sit around the telly...to watch them flogging more effortless stuff.  We'll be having spuds.  And lots of them.  Because they grew in our garden.  They didn't cost much and haven't traveled very far at all.  Nobody sponsored them, earned a living from talking about them, and they won't be carried out of a silver tray with the family sitting around looking marvelled.  But that's our Christmas and number one son is pretty proud of his efforts.  So I hope you have effortless one.  Merry Christmas

High society

Max wants to spend Christmas watching Grace Kelly movies, Minnie our farm cat would prefer to just kill crawling things, Number One son just wants to do anything involving really good smells and I'd like a good lie down.  The pressure is on.  Less than a week to go.  Why does it feel like the pressure is on?  Like this deadline defines us.  Last year their cheese platter excelled, how will I match it, or if the presents aren't exactly what hearts desire somehow I'm a lesser person?  What a nonsense that we put ourselves through this.  We rush out the door with wallets gaping open ready to throw at anything that will solve the problem, feed more mouths, or will seat more people at the trestle table (notice I didn't say comfortably.  What happened to the good old piano stool?).  Only to shove it later in far away place or back of the cupboard ready to take out for heavy criticism next year.  The font of all expenditure, the glossy magazines tell us our food and children must be stylish and dreamy.  The Christmas decorations must be all artfully hand made from bare willow branches and our gifts wrapped with antique french linen strategically placed beneath.  It never used to be this hard.  Or expensive.  You can't replace the early morning sounds on Christmas morning of children sneaking into the lounge to open their gifts.  The sound of multi pack cheap Christmas wrapping being torn and and thrown aside.  The cries of thrill and words of awesome.  Or more like..."I'm not wearing that!  She can't make me". Oh well, let's hope there's a good movie on the telly sometime today.

He's in aisle 12 potato 27

We know that animals pick up on our moods and behaviours.  But I didn't expect our number one son cocker spaniel to pick up potato farming as quick as he has.  No sooner have we opened the back door and he's off to the paddock, nose down, tail up and disappears amongst the green.  He sniffs up and down each row.  We only know he is there because I see a mexican wave of potato leaves bowing as he brushes by.  He gets to the end of the row, then dashes up the next one without lifting his head.  Twenty five kennebecs, twenty six kennebecs, twenty seven...uh oh, I smell possum.  Then the potato rows rustle a little bit faster.  We're learning about spuds, about watering, growing and harvesting.  We've snuck a few out of the patch for trial, and compared our kennebec with our neighbour's pink eyes.  I've learnt in this part of the world you can discuss religion and expect as much interest as a cross stitch discussion at the bar of the local pub, but don't get onto your preferred spud of choice or they'll be more than pink eyes on offer.  I've seen women roll up a sleeve when it comes to the better baker or boiler.  So for now we'll keep growing and learning and with the help of our special spud patrol boy, I'm sure they are in safe hands for now.

Hands up who's a rooster...

It's time to sort the men from the boys. Or rather sort the hens from the roosters.  We've found foster homes for at least half of our newly hatched chicks whom we now refer to as the teenagers. They come from different batches but have all bonded together to form an almost poultry posse of energy and attitude.  They roam in a gang during the day and at night now with a shortage of bedroom perches they sleep on their verandah under the stars long after the oldies have gone up to bed.  The problem arises when human foster parents want to select chickens by gender.  We don't ask a lot of questions at this age of chicken and it's actually really hard to tell by looking at them.  Some have the makings of a decent red crest, others have a distinct higher feathered tail and some just have a bossy attitude.  Could be anyone, or anything, really.  So other than conducting a detailed survey we are just going to have to wing it!!  Sorry folks you get what you are given.  We did and ended up with three beautiful roosters who all have their designated jobs and do the company proud.  Cyril (pictured) is Chief Executive Rooster and holds his directorship with great importance, Lewis, more deputy like a long serving CFO who would love the top job but will never get it, just works and works to the best of his ability.  Amy (yes, got that wrong), well he's a on the fence so to speak and just hangs at the back looking cool.  So without a proper selection process the team will be soon off to their new homes.  Hope the view from the new verandah is just as good.

Shorn the sheep

When we first got our sheep we declared them pets rather than produce and named them accordingly.  Molly being the boldest of the four, Shirley for the little brown curls on her forehead, Rosie because it's a good sheep name and Bette Davis because she has those eyes.  Our shearer with all knowledge and us with none declared one to be a castrated male.  So it appears that Rosie or perhaps Roger snuck in with the selection when the group got mixed up in the process.  Nice work.  He'll remain with us and just hang with the girls.  Our sheep are officially doing community service at the moment as they are having an eat-over at a friends family property doing great work in keeping the grass down.  They'll be home for Christmas and no doubt look forward to a Santa sack of pellets on arrival. When Roger/Rosie decided to stick with this group I bet he didn't know that he'd be so lucky in seeing a few Boxing Day BBQ's rather than being just a major contribution to one. 

What do you buy a Frizzle for Christmas?

We put the Christmas tree lights on at night and the ponies over the road think it's marvellous.  Our tree is made of old growth forest plastic and is unpacked and assembled rather than felled.  The decorations are not glass and will bounce when dropped as little paws shows occasional bouts of interest.  I've colour co-ordinated this year and thrown out the silver plastic lilies that spat tinsel as soon as you touched them.  Our rubbish bin now sparkles accordingly.  Having put away the tinsel that didn't make the cut this year I was surprised to find a solitary red glitter Christmas bauble on the back step. A dropped one?  But I didn't use red this year. The next day another appeared in exactly the same spot.  It was green.  However this one had a few tell tale signs.  Like teeth marks.  That afternoon another red.  This mystery must be solved.  In our tool shed lies our number one son's dog bed.  Sitting neatly inside was a green garbage bag filled with unused decorations.  He had been choosing a daily ornament to go on the tree, avoiding the temptation to chew it to pieces and depositing it on the back door mat. He has his own Christmas stocking as does his brother Max.  Santa I've been a good kitty doesn't feel right for our new farm cat addition and I should've gone with the one that said Santa, I can explain!  Christmas for our pets is a joyful time of the year with more food than usual, family attention and a singing Santa that makes you bark and wag your tail.  With the addition of a dozen recently hatched chickens I would suggest however that Santa better get a bigger sleigh. 

Hand over the hamper or the hatchback gets it

This is a place of shared living.  We share so many of our spaces here with the animal world.  This little wallaby sat in a public car park not far from a sign that read 'don't feed the wildlife'.  They know we come with food and we like to share.  Why scrounge for food when there's a perfectly good food hamper with enough to go round.  Hand over the scones you scumbags. Previously I shared only my bed and attention with our two housebound family members of the dog and cat variety but now this list has grown.  A family of starlings have moved into the chimney in our bedroom.  The 6am flapping of wings and feeding of noisy chicks wakes us most mornings.  I'm hoping this is not the generation that decides to enjoy the comforts of home for too long.  Our backyard is shared with a community of chickens including devoted roosters, hens and chicks of all ages.  No sooner is a pile of earth pitched with a fork then they're all in for the picking and dividing of snails from dirt.  Good work my friends.  On a mild night we share a roof with a Cossack dancing possum and the birds who insist on roosting inside the back shed remain regardless of Minnie our farm cat who watches with much interest.  The white duck with the lame leg still comes for the odd sleep over when the prospect of a long limp back to the dam seems too much.  And everyday I put out the supply of water bowls for the troops as cat, dog, chickens and ducks all share the same bowls to drink. A still morning brings the green parrots who zip across the trees sounding like a squeezed rubber duckie and you can hear the magpie babies demanding food until a parent shoves something down their throats until they are quiet.  Food and shelter for all.  And very cheap rent.

What do we want...green grass. When do we want it...now!

Wind and no rain.  Dead grass and roses that look like they've been microwaved.  Welcome to drought.  It's heartbreaking to see bluey grey thunderous clouds stalking the outskirts of my town only to downpour on everyone else.  The gales blowing this week have managed to lift shed roofs and split some vulnerable trees whilst I watched the BBQ move itself sideways across the courtyard with gas bottle in tow.  When we arrived this time last year we were challenged with weekly mowing and pictures of green everywhere. Now our veggie patch turns out celery stalks that bow to me as I walk past.  The cruel gusts tossed my baby nectarines around the driveway like they were on a roller coaster that came off the rails. No fun at this fair. And then we've sat inside and looked at the darkness of the wood fire saying gee, remember those cold nights only to light it up again today to think gee, remember those warm nights.  A windy month like a full moon sends Max skidding across the lino with a kink in his tail on the run from, well nothing really.  The chooks still manage to trek through the garden with feathers blowing backwards as if under a hair dryer.  My attempts to not resemble them fail as I head off to my car holding onto the door like I was fighting with an invisible person who wanted to pull it off.  Well that's Spring and can't have weather on demand.  Even just a little of our rain entitlement would be nice?

Christmas blows in early

Santa has officially arrived in the Christmas Parade unbeknown to me as I tried unsuccessfully to manoeuvre the wrong way against a footpath tide of pram and toddler traffic today.  Once returned to the safety of my kitchen I now look to baking plans for Christmas.  Max can't go passed a good shortbread but I'm considering an attempt at mince tarts of sorts.  I found a recipe in an English Country based magazine that tells of winter wonderlands with pictures of snow dipped hedges and knitted Christmas stockings.  A long way from the gale that's blowing across my back paddock that means if I risk putting the laundry on the clothes line next door's cows could end up wearing my underwear and the sheets will be somewhere along the highway.  Having had a cup of tea and a home made rock cake, it's time to put pen to paper and come up with the Christmas baking list. It's the time of year when diets and budgets are packed up and put away to be replaced by bags of caster sugar, white flour and packets of the unusual that would normally be forgotten in the pantry.   The temptation to buy chestnut flour and elderflower water is pretty strong even though I have no idea what they're used for.  And the beautiful display of Christmas pannetone that if your family aren't familiar with a European Christmas will be wondering why you are serving them dry cake.  Each year we try to do something a little different. But this year there will be shortbread.  After all, they're Max's favourite.

Sharing home baked bread with my pet unicorn

Easy bread making is one of those kitchen myths like a non stick frying pan and an organised pot cupboard.  Easy the instructions may be but the alchemy of bread baking is in the hands of the proving gods.  My most trusted bread adviser tells me, having worked many years in the commercial bread producing trade that if you wipe your finger across the texture of the bread and it comes away too easy then it needs more proving.  This was only my second attempt so I was pretty happy with a 'needs to improve' mark on my report card. My early attempts swung between crusty but not risen or worse, cake like in bad need of beating - with a wooden plank.  Flour power will bring good fortune because as we know if you start out with good ingredients the need for luck reduces.  It's worth the pursuit to have the opportunity to have the home baked stuff.  The smell of just out of the oven loaves with a firm but not denture cracking crust and the taste of local wholewheat flour is all about living the country dream.  But the secret lies in ancient artisan skills that have proven (er, yes) that the modern commercial world just can't produce the magic quickly and cheaply. So back to the bench and time for another attempt at easy but not really, simple but most complex bread making.  If I could just find what I did with the tin.

It's no Ramsey Street but what do they know about sheep?

In our previous home we were close to our neighbours.  In a block of eight townhouses designed to utilise every inch to its maximum, yes we were really close.  We heard them get up in the morning, use their bathroom, leave for work and return at the end of the day.  Max our ragdoll cat would sit along our back fence and spy on another lot.  They, no doubt could hear our conversations in the courtyard that backed onto their yard and while our kitchen window looked straight into the townhouse opposite it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to say that on Sunday's it was his turn to cook.  And whilst I say we were close, I didn't know their names.  I didn't know anything about them and all they knew about us was probably a feeling of being watched by large pair of blue eyes through a hole in the back fence.  But that, to a large degree is what some inner city suburban living is like.  You come and go and keep your good selves to yourselves and don't ask too many questions.  A little bit like when they interview the neighbours of the crime scene on the telly, they always say 'Quiet couple, always kept to themselves'.  When we arrived here, we asked a lot of questions from people who live close by but not that close.  And got some really good advice.  We asked about livestock, and water and septic tanks and why there isn't a national task force to eradicate the huntsman spider.  We got some pretty practical advice and a lot of help too.  We now know we can't knit the wool from our type of sheep, that there are ways we can better manage our water tanks and don't get me started on septic trenches or I'll be going for days.  I'm yet to get a response on the task force but I'm hopeful. Our fences our different here, they don't provide much privacy and some of our neighbours push them over sometimes to get to the green grass on our side.  Some just chew and look and ponder - what on earth are they up to now? 

Is that sleigh bells I hear?

It's almost here.  Boy, where did that year go?  There is something about your first sight of Christmas decorations that makes the rest of the year really fly.  The wall to wall carols playing in the supermarket aisles makes me want to move my shopping trolley just a little bit faster.  Fortunately it's only mid November so we can cast a leisurely glance over the glossy magazine pages of elaborate Christmas menus and overloaded tables stuffed with fare.  Each year they seem to outdo the last.  This year it appears we need to have home made decorations including crocheted bunting draped under the fire place and Irish linen wrapped parcels.  The menus become more unique as the traditional foods get gazumped by the inventive.  Whilst giving the appearance of a frugal feast, the pictured glazed rare species of some sort that will take two days to cook, if not found roaming wild in your back paddock will probably cost you an amount similar to a holiday in Spain. The assortment of children should be strategically placed around the table in crisp white cotton (as if) seen joyfully playing with hand crafted bon bons and not an iphone in sight. Fortunately our reality is not quite so stylised as our much tried and true traditions prevail.  There is some comfort to know, no matter what book or magazine we choose for inspiration, there will no doubt be mess, stress and we'll promise ourselves, that next year it will be at their place.

No call for confit

We had a visit from a weary traveller yesterday.  Not so much as a knock on a farm door but more like an hysterical scream coming from the chook pen.  Just as dinner hit plate, the cries alerted us to all hell having erupted in the chicken house. Having only moments ago seen them tucked in alongside each other in their somewhat limited and soon to be renovated indoor outdoor pen, the new visitor sat outside causing concern.  A white duck with a troublesome leg came by to enquire about a place to rest.   He accepted our kind offer of some grain and a water bowl and didn't seem keen to move on.  In the spirit of Christmas he was given lodgings for the night in an old shed with plenty of fresh straw and a few restful piles of old cow manure. Our ever wise Cocker Spaniel looked on with Minnie our dumped and now resident farm cat unsure as to what chicken variety this was and how we really need to stop feeding them so much.  Post dinner our rested friend had regained his energy and was last seen walking slowing towards the dam at the back of our paddock. A little ditty sprang into my mind from an early memory of my Irish kindergarten friend Ema (pronounced Eema).  She used to sing a little song about always be kind to your duck.  Because your duck used to be your brother.  Or something to that effect.  I was four years old at the time and now that I think about it, given her accent it was probably dog not duck.  Anyway, best wishes my feathered friend - and good luck for the festive season (you might need it).

Fair coop

Lewis our second in charge pekin rooster likes an early start.  I mean early as in a 4:30am early start.  No sleep in for this little feller.  I was hoping with daylight savings that the early risers would be delayed an hour but the early rising sun soon put that theory nicely back to bed.  Lewis likes to survey the land and determines his schedule for the day.  He recently suffered a demotion to the rank of second in charge following the loss of one of our hens in a water trough.  A sad event but with no suspicious circumstances.  Since then he's been pushed to the back of the group, no longer left on his own to supervise and now the last one at the assortment of last night's leftovers.  Even though the incident was not his fault there's no fair process and union representation in chicken world.  He took it on the chin and didn't even call in sick the next day.  I wonder if he'll ever get the opportunity to work his way up in the pecking order again.  Or maybe his warning sits permanently in the chicken files forever.  Most unfair.

Throw the keys in the bowl, it's the retro radish

What is it about the radish to says Sao biscuits and the 1970's.  An under rated vegetable that deserves a little more of the spotlight over the ever present cress and every party goer the pea shoot.  Our first harvest from our newly planted patches have provided enough radishes to keep us going all through summer.  Provided we eat nothing but radishes.  I'm looking at my Margaret Fulton's for inspiration.  I've often seen them mandolined within an inch of their lives alongside a carpaccio or ceviche - thinly sliced raw fish to you and me.  Someone suggested to me radish pie but I think it was a joke  and I'm still under performing in the sashimi slicing category so we'll be having salads all round for a few weeks yet.  Being home grown and freshly pulled from their comfy beds they've developed a strong mustardy flavour.  Your standard supermarket variety as opposed to common garden variety don't have that same punch on the nose of heat and crunch that has you reaching for your Kraft Cheddar cubes and bypassing the cabana.  So here's to the humble radish.  An almost forgotten feature of the hors d'oeuvres platter.  Pass the prawn cocktail and break out the spumante, cheers.

Same same but different

So how different really is it for you to move from a heavily populated and almost uppity bayside village where puffer jackets are numerous and lattes are soy?  My view from the window is of a road that has not so much luxury people movers but movers with more leg room - and more legs.  There are trucks not jeeps, loaded with feed not groceries and the white Ute is the vehicle of choice for the discerning working dog who never gets to see inside.  Puppy school is non existent as a dog's life starts on the back of a tractor.  He learns quick and is not terribly fussed about grooming as rolling in something dead is the highlight of the day.  We're learning at breakneck speed.  We know our pink eye's from our kennebecs where in our previous home our potatoes were not grown and named just scanned and packed.  We've learnt about mounding up soil and the constant quest for water in a dry place.  We've learnt what's old news for so many around us.  Knowledge from living off the land is an under valued source like water, you can never have too much of it when you need it.  We knew about peak hour traffic that goes all day and e-tags and e-tickets but they were soon forgotten in a world of water tanks and fire boxes in winter.  No flick of a switch but chopping, splitting, and a worthwhile moment between man and dog as they stare at the first flames to take on a newly stacked fire.  So yes, a different world for us but the same same for the oak tree that sits out the front that remembers the first world war.  We're just a different set of caretakers.

Cheep Cheep

Baby chickens everywhere.  It's spring.  Mothers have stern words and flapping of wings over their protective circles.  Roosters are struggling to keep up with the demand for a watchful eye over the hens as they wander about the grounds.  Mothers play groups don't form and there's not a jumping castle in sight.  Wattle birds are told to push off in no uncertain terms and the ever present farm cat watches on with more than a passing curiosity.  Fortunately farm cat is on a strict diet of more meals than usual as we feed her up to keep her mind elsewhere. 

Why spray it on when you can roll in it

Number One Son ready to go somewhere.  Anywhere.  The trip in the car to a sandy beach or a garbage tip.  Equally exciting with untold smells.  He's always been a good passenger and whilst a whining Neil Young on the radio might put some of us off, not him.  He's come from a life of cafe culture and prestigious puppy schools to a farm yard with strange birds and woolly dogs that won't obey commands.  He must wonder how he went from a regular appointment at the local groomers having him blow dried and smelling of scent to now sporting a solid layer of dried up chook pooh and smelling of something dead.  The pooch pamperer has been replaced with a bucket of warm water and a rinse under the hose followed by a quick dash to get in front of a roaring wood heater.  Those city dogs have it too easy.  Now where did I see that dead thing.

Who votes for the outdoor decking and a patio?

Not wanting to break up a chicken conference I did stop by to wonder what the topic was.  We don't know much about chickens.  They hold all the knowledge and we don't ask questions.  We didn't even know what sex they were until it was too late.  We were warned about having too many roosters.  We probably do have too many.  But they've worked it out.  Each one has a job to do.  Some manage this better than others but they all get along.  Now spring has arrived and we've got a whole bunch more.  And more on the way after those.  New pens will need to be erected with sufficient perching and nesting requirements.  A dark room for laying, warm areas for the winter months, a library, an indoor/outdoor kitchen and home entertainment room - or not.
Being of the pekin variety they are not too disruptive to gardens and whilst they will redistribute your bark chip coverings liberally they won't really dig up much.  They did wonders on ending the grasshopper plague that destroyed my kale.  But then they ate the kale.  This year I'll be netting a little earlier.  So with a booming chicken community we'll be abundant with small fresh creamy golden eggs.  Just better get the home reno people in soon.

It takes a community to raise a potato

The Humble Spud poked it's head up as part of our first serious planting of, well anything really.  It took a community effort from much valued knowledge and man power from our neighbourhood but black soil was found under a carpet of some of the toughest weeds known to man.
We're on weed alert now and are putting a task force together to combat the problem - over a glass of something at the kitchen bench.  I'm new in the spud game and being new to this island have only just become acquainted with the vast array of potato varieties available.  Having been subjected to only supermarket interpretations which can only be described as spud looking variety either washed or not, to hear people having passionate discussions over their preferred variety is remarkable.  At a market stall last Sunday a fellow shopper piped in across my conversation with the farmer about which potato was the best for baking. It was the voice of experience you could tell, probably having tried and tested so many.  She had strong feelings about her side of spud variety as the best and fairest and by far the better bakers.  And now our own trusty pink eye and kennebecs have risen to the challenge of some novice farmers with much help from our chief farm cat who stuck her paw in almost every hole, our trusty number one son Cocker Spaniel who stood guard should any brazen rabbit get too close, our farmyard chickens on a rotated grub removal roster and the neighbourhood observers who looked on over the fence, snorted - then went back to grazing.  Happy days.

Whiskas rare varieties

What could an indoor cat and and outdoor farm cat have so much to talk about.  Maxwell the indoor ragdoll who will remain the indoor cat having had one too many beatings by the local pigeon hood in his last home would only find a farm bewildering and be assaulted by the nearest wattle bird for just asking questions.  Minnie on the other hand as the outdoor farm cat holds rank as chief mouser and lethal lizard killer (well skinks actually) will spend only so long at the door listening to tales of soft beds and Laura Ashley blankets before hunting prevails. Max is fussy on food Minnie eats it if it moves or you move.  Max is sick of every variety of cat food on the market with our only options now being endangered species in a tin.  Minnie eats Max's leftovers.  They've stitched up a deal and it's a win win. So this conversation could be along the lines of "no beef and liver was yesterday, I promise it will be salmon today..."

A big day at the hairdressers for the four black faced Suffolk's. I'd suggested a light trim with some short layering on top but it fell on deaf shears.  We were very grateful for the much experienced hand that gave our girls a much needed do for the summer.  And whilst we can all uncover many things at the hairdressers, it turns out that one of our girls is actually a boy and got mixed up in the girl bunch when selected.  Lucky we established pet status in the early days or our newly found Shaun the Sheep might have ended up  - well just ended up really. Now...I wonder if Myer have a scouring and spinning department?

It's a boy. Or a girl.

After weeks and weeks of our having a chicken in a wine box leaving us unsure if we were hatching a batch of fluffy chicks or a decent bottle of bordeaux, then finally 8 arrived all at once.  To our little farm.  Then another lot and now there's two more chickens out of rotation and in the maternity ward.  Cages bought and borrowed to keep possessive mothers apart and straw strewn to ensure little feet don't get cold.  Phew.  Visitors hours over for another day.  Mums and bubs doing well.