Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.
I still have a sore egg hole. It reminds me of the first egg I ever laid. I didn’t really know what was driving me to make a nest under the box thorn hedge (I had no mother to guide me, remember). But make it I did. There I sat, and when I felt this huge urge to push I tried to get out of my beautiful nest because I didn’t want to ‘fowl’ it (as the people would say, oddly). Yes, I honestly had no idea; I just thought it was an extra large poo. When I turned around and saw I had laid this lovely egg I almost burst with pride. But my egg hole hurt that night too.
The people call our egg holes cloaca. It’s a funny word – not much rhymes with cloaca: did I wake ya… I’m a cake baker… I love the paintings of Degas… And the songs of Suzanne Vega (not really!)… Hay maker… hmmm, I shall have to sleep on it.
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