One of our two laying chickens has come good on one of her resolutions, which is presumably to lay bigger eggs in ’11. Either that, or try to impersonate an ostrich. I collected the whopper on the right a few minutes ago, still warm, and weighed it. It was 98g, or three and a half ounces in old money. The other eggs, also laid by our two laying hens, are more typical.
I have all sorts of things I’d like to do in 2011, though laying eggs of any size at all comes very low on the list. Lucky, then, that I have chickens to do that sort of thing. Here, in no particular order, as they say on the Xcrement Factor, is a randomesque pot-pourri of stuff.
* That all the people I know who have unaccountably come down with horrible diseases, get better;
* That all the people I know who are in legal and/or financial tzores rise above it, and discover a rich uncle in South America who’s bequeathed them his Smelly River Ordinaries;
* That I finally FINALLY can get down to work on The Myth of Progression: On The Tangled Bank of Darwin’s Imagination;
* That Defiant The Guinea Pig: Firefighter! finds a warm reception with a publisher;
* That we at the Maison Des Girrafes can complete a rather ambitious program of home improvement without going broke;
* That I’ll be able to see Norwich City FC promoted to the Premiership this year, so Crox Minor and I can go to Carrow Road to watch the Canaries play the kind of opposition they deserve.
And to all my readers (both of you) I wish eggsactly the kind of year you desire.