Our babies are growing fast. Sooooo fast, that folk can’t quite believe how much they are growing.
The Young Master and the Young Mistress are on Chickwatch morning and night.
They’d be at it noon as well – if it wasn’t for that dratted school (in the Young Master’s opinion) which purely exists (he thinks) to completely spoil kids’ days, and make them miserable.
We usually buy chick crumb in small, 5kg bags because although chicks are hungry things, they are quite wee, so they don’t actually – in comparison to an adult chicken – eat a huge amount.
But these chicks do. They eat not only their own bodyweight (well, it seems like it) but everyone else’s too.
At four weeks, they are feathering up nicely, just a few baldy bits here and there.
They are bold, inquisitive and – because they are being mithered, stroked and petted by a multitude of ankle-biters – possibly going to be the tamest chooks we have ever had.
That’s my clog in the photo, by the way, for scale you understand, I know it looks like someone fell in the pen and the chicks have eaten them, all bar one clog.
But I can assure you, no members of my family were hurt or injured in the making of that photo.
It’s incredible that within 56 days these cute wee eating machines will have eaten themselves so plump that they can be culled and go on to the supermarket shelves and butchers’ displays to be bought and made into a roast dinner.
That’s just a couple of months. Not even a full two months. Amazing.
But these are parent stock, the Edna Turnblads of the momma chick world.
Oh, that reminds me. What a fantastic production of Hairspray last week at the Gala Opera.
Great singing, great dancing and some truly fandabidozi wigs, which had their very own ‘Wig Mistress’, I see from the programme.
But I digress.
They (the chicks, that is, not the wigs) will hopefully grow up to be crossed with our eating boys (the La Bresse and Scots Grey cockerels) and become amply-padded mums to some nice, chunky chicks.
The trick will be to not letting them get too portly, or they’ll go off their legs.
One of the mums at school has just started up a Slimming World class, but I’m not sure chickens would be welcome.
I am sure our Scots Grey boy, Sergeant Murdoch, will keep them fit.
He’s running after all the hens just now, trying to ‘kiss’ them, says the Young Mistress.
Ah, the innocence of youth.