Four degrees at 8:30am. Last night we were treated to very strong winds, which slammed into our tall-house-on-the-rock like waves breaking against cliffs. This morning, the atmospherical detritus of the last weeks had disappeared, leaving striking visibility towards the Alps. Bright and sunny.
So far, the eggs have survived in the incubator, which we placed in AJ's winter bedroom. They've survived B's compulsive twiddling of the temperature knob, which caused a major panic and a great deal of headless-chicken behaviour on the adults' part on day two. And they've survived AJ's nocturnal 'protection' ("I'll look after my bow-wow tonight, Mama - and your eggs..."). There might not be anything growing inside them, but for that we'd be blaming the cockerel.
Today we start the grand labour of turning the eggs. Three times a day for days, and days, and days. This is, apparently, so that the growing foetus, if there is one, doesn't adhere to the side of the egg and die. Also, so that each egg is more likely to get the warmth it needs.
What is there to say about turning eggs? Nothing, really. It's about as literarily inspiring as watching cold porridge congealing on the floor.
I guess it's time to go and clean up breakfast.
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Wednesday, 23 January 2008
Chick-rearing, day three
Four degrees at 8:30am. Last night we were treated to very strong winds, which slammed into our tall-house-on-the-rock like waves breaking against cliffs. This morning, the atmospherical detritus of the last weeks had disappeared, leaving striking visibility towards the Alps. Bright and sunny.
So far, the eggs have survived in the incubator, which we placed in AJ's winter bedroom. They've survived B's compulsive twiddling of the temperature knob, which caused a major panic and a great deal of headless-chicken behaviour on the adults' part on day two. And they've survived AJ's nocturnal 'protection' ("I'll look after my bow-wow tonight, Mama - and your eggs..."). There might not be anything growing inside them, but for that we'd be blaming the cockerel.
Today we start the grand labour of turning the eggs. Three times a day for days, and days, and days. This is, apparently, so that the growing foetus, if there is one, doesn't adhere to the side of the egg and die. Also, so that each egg is more likely to get the warmth it needs.
What is there to say about turning eggs? Nothing, really. It's about as literarily inspiring as watching cold porridge congealing on the floor.
I guess it's time to go and clean up breakfast.
So far, the eggs have survived in the incubator, which we placed in AJ's winter bedroom. They've survived B's compulsive twiddling of the temperature knob, which caused a major panic and a great deal of headless-chicken behaviour on the adults' part on day two. And they've survived AJ's nocturnal 'protection' ("I'll look after my bow-wow tonight, Mama - and your eggs..."). There might not be anything growing inside them, but for that we'd be blaming the cockerel.
Today we start the grand labour of turning the eggs. Three times a day for days, and days, and days. This is, apparently, so that the growing foetus, if there is one, doesn't adhere to the side of the egg and die. Also, so that each egg is more likely to get the warmth it needs.
What is there to say about turning eggs? Nothing, really. It's about as literarily inspiring as watching cold porridge congealing on the floor.
I guess it's time to go and clean up breakfast.
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