I need to get back to Jarrow. The Old Man's going chicken mad. The Rhode Island Reds he hatched in the incubator are approaching maturity now, which means they can start to pay for themselves.
There's also Rambo, who'll peck at anything that moves, the sole survivor of eighteen Barred Plymouth Rock eggs he bought from some chancer, who had given him a dodgy phone number. (Undeterred, he drove up to Hexham and found the bugger, who agreed to give him some BPR chicks - though you've got to doubt that they are BPRs, which seem to be unfathomably hard to get hold of).
Young Rambo's teamed up with a maternal seeming young hen, of uncertain parentage, which is thought to have a career as a clucker in due course. Mam's called her Buttercup, though naturally we'll keep that one under our hats when having a pint in the Long Bar.
In addition, a number of odds and sods. He seems to accumulate chickens as I do cameras. A man in Dumfries is sending him half a dozen BPR eggs for nothing except "to see if ma auld cock's still fertile", and in return for half a dozen RIR eggs in due course.