This year's clutch, in the bag

We're getting towards the end of a long wet week, and it's hard for everyone to stop their face looking like one.

To cheer myself up and take my mind off the multitude of wet underthings, overthings, footthings and headthings that are hanging, steaming from every hook, ledge and chairback, I decided to unilaterally declare spring by putting the eggs into the incubator. As if in clucking agreement the girls in the muddy coop produced no less than five eggs to round the clutch up to 30. 

The fingers, toes and claws of two grownups, two dotties, one gun dog, seven cats, three cockerels, nine hens and the resident badger are all firmly crossed in an egg-stasy of hope...