Despite my concerns on Monday, absolutely nothing has happened with regards to the serama eggs. Vera is still sat patiently upon them like Terry Wogan's wig made sentient, and interesting rustlings are still issuing from beneath her. In fact, last night I spent a good five minutes nose to beak with the sound asleep hen contemplating all of these interesting sounds. As she is utterly still, yet the eggs don't appear to be doing anything, I can only draw the conclusion that chickens can, in fact, fart. And like pregnant ladies everywhere, Vera has given up trying to remain lady like.
Betsy is missing her pal enormously. If you step outside, you are greeted with the tippy-tappy sounds of a very small chicken speeding towards you looking for company. As I type this, Betsy is sitting on a garden chair and the youngest is hand feeding her individual blades of grass. He is also regaling her with tales of Doctor Who, and she is doing a good line in 'interested'. She seems to appreciate and approve of this treatment, obviously considering herself to be chicken royalty. She can't fool me, though. I have noticed flecks of bright yellow dried on her beak and on one chickenny eyebrow. Betsy lays infrequently, and they are either tiny, five pence piece sized fart eggs or larger softies. I suspect that she has noshed a softy this morning, which is an undesirable trait in any hen but on this occassion I shall turn a blind eye. Some allowances must be made for royal chickens.
The pekins have finally made peace with being shut in to the coop until a reasonable hour, so I can now breathe a sigh of relief. Spring still has their sap rising, though, and there has been a lot of chasing and pecking order shuffling. Hilda's spell at being broody seems to have badly affected her standing in the flock, and for now she has to tolerate even her old best mate Gladys squashing her a bit. For the most part, she takes this quite well. I did have to rescue her yesterday, however, as her own egg was chasing her up the garden. Or this is how it appeared to the most disconcerted hen. In reality, the egg was firmly fastened to her ample behind by a particularly unpleasant poo. It was a team effort to free her, as she pulled one way and I another. The egg came free still attached to several feathers. Hilda turned around to examine her new waxed bits and scuttled off up the garden in high dudgeon. The egg was discreetly disposed of.
We now enter the critical phase with the serama hatching experiment. I check Vera regularly, and strain my ears desperate to hear even the merest hint of a cheep. But so far the only sounds are Vera's dubious rumblings. Today is day 19, so pipping could occur today or tomorrow.
Cross your fingers for me, eh?