“It is crazy,” I confess. “I’m just so totally busy.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. Egg production has restarted in earnest, with the chickens particularly liking their treat from Patisserie Valerie, and I pack a basket to the brim.

“I mean yesterday,” I continue, “I must have started at around ten, and I honestly didn’t stop until at least half-four. I just don’t know how I’m managing.”

Short Tony gives me a sympathetic look. Any more of this and I will become stressed or contract yuppie flu, if it still exists. In fact I am sure I can detect the beginnings of yuppie flu in my arms. I stretch them, anxiously.

“We’re going away all week,” he replies. “Can I leave you to look after the chickens?”

I am a bit taken aback by this. Here I am, working harder than anybody has ever had to work in the world ever, and he is leaving me with sole responsibility of the chickens. I do not reveal my annoyance as I nod my agreement.

I carry the basket of eggs to Eddie’s house. Unconvincingly-voiced magician Derren Brown appears over one shoulder, telling me not to drop them. “Do not drop them…” he insists. “Do not drop them…” I swat at him irritably, worrying that I am going to drop them, what with him telling me not to drop them and the yuppie flu in my arms.

I do not drop them. But Eddie is out. I knock for ages, but realise that I will have to take them home again. Derren is very amused by this. Despite the arm situation, I carry the basket out in front of me, ensuring that everything is level and that no eggs crack against each other. “Do not drop them… do not drop them…” he maintains.

Later, I ring Eddie. “Are you at home?” I demand. “I have your eggs.”

Eddie confirms that she is at home, by medium of answering her home telephone. “Don’t drop them,” she barks.

I head up the hill with the basket of eggs. Derren Brown has switched to the other shoulder, and is taunting me once more. Despite the fact that it is really uncomfortable, I maintain my rigid and unyielding grip on the basket of eggs, keeping my worried eyes peeled for potholes in the road where I might trip.

I knock on the door. There is no reply. I knock again, and ring, and knock. There is still no reply. After about ten minutes I head grumpily back down the hill. Derren Brown is pissing himself by now, telling me that on no occasion must I drop the eggs. I am so busy that I do not have time for such tomfoolery, and the yuppie flu is really getting to my aching limbs by now, although I am aware that I am going on about that a bit. That is the thing with yuppie flu. It is all ME ME ME.

I reach the cottage without dropping the eggs. Comedy’s misfortune is my gain!!! Later, Eddie calls to apologise for not answering the door, claiming showerdom. She walks round to pick up the eggs. I advise her not to drop them as she carries them home.

Big A pops round. He is going away, and wants me to look after his chickens. I agree. I am a martyr.

“WHAT are my Denby bowls doing in there?!?” snarls the LTLP.

I shrug my shoulders and make vague noises, which is what I generally do when I don’t want to answer a question. She is as unimpressed with this as was the woman in the Registry Office.

“I thought perhaps the standard of crockery might make a difference,” I mumble, hiding a Le Creuset behind my back. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I have suggested inviting the reclusive Barclay brothers for dinner, but only if they dress as giant staplers.

Short Tony is stomping around in the chicken enclosure. “I’m getting my gun out if it carries on like this,” he warns. The chickens back off in alarm.

“How many did you get yesterday?” I ask.

“One. Just one.”

Something occurs to me. I give him a funny and askance look. We have an ‘every other day’ arrangement, by which I take the eggs on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, he takes the eggs on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and there is a free-for-all on Sundays. A grave and uncharitable thought is forming in my mind that Short Tony might just be pretending that his yield is down, in order to cover up the fact that he is swiping production on Days That He Is Not Allowed. I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

“Here you go,” I tell the chickens, setting down their Hummus salad, and immediately regretting my suspicious nature.

“We’ll see how it goes today,” I sigh. As I leave, I notice Short Tony looking at me in a funny and askance way. I haven’t a clue what that is all about. I collect the empty bowls, and take them in for the dishwasher.

Please talk amongst yourselves for now.

Back next week.

Horribly busy. Sorry. Plus I need to put some wood treatment on a wendy house. Sorry sorry.

The liquid scalds the back of my throat. I blink in surprise and pain.

“Not bad, is it?” asks Don.

I decline a second helping. The sporting authorities are far keener these days on fostering a clean-living and healthy look – Lord knows what the image-obsessed International Bowls Federation would make of a team that blatantly distributes home-made cider from a vodka bottle before the start of play.

“It tastes a bit… spirited,” I agree, as I stagger towards the mat, coughing in agony, my eyes streaming and face melting.

We complete our handshakes. “I’m very sorry about the green,” says my opponent. “The groundsman was meant to mow it today. We’ll kill him if we get hold of him.”

His tone leaves no doubt that they will, indeed, kill the groundsman should they get hold of him. I make conciliatory noises, as does Big A. It is the same for both sides and frankly anything that evens things up is ok by me. My conciliatory noises are interrupted by more cider-originated coughing; my eyes and ears don’t appear to be working properly.

My first wood stops about ten yards short of the jack. My opponent’s stops next to it. I glare savagely at the uncut grass, a surface fit only for amateurs.

When it’s Nigel’s turn I have a decent idea. “If you can come in round this way,” I shout, “you might be able to knock these two up.”

Big A prods me tactfully in the ribs. “Nigel’s just had his turn,” he explains. I look confused. Somebody offers me more cider.

“I was a bit surprised when they just stole that end and you started muttering ‘fucking bastard,’” muses Big A in the Village Pub afterwards. “You seemed to be getting a bit competitive.” I sip my pint sheepishly. “I was having a bit of trouble getting into the zone,” I reply.

The season is but a few matches old, and we are already looking like we might challenge for honours. I need to keep my head if we are to keep this standard up.

“Are you sure you can do that?” insists Eddie. “Are you sure?!?”

I give Eddie a contemptuous look. She will rue the day she doubted my chickens. I order Eddie and Eddie more drinks, and we discuss terms.

It is my first major order!!! John Twonil is getting married, and I have won the contract to supply eggs for the wedding cake!!! This is the sort of break that really makes a difference to the hungry business executive; I suspect it is how Bernard Matthews, Mr Kipling etc. started.

Becoming a supplier for the big society wedding of the year fills me with pride. The event has been planned for months – specially printed invitations, a privately-made dress for the bride, one of the top venues in the region (Village Pub). I would imagine that I can now put some form of crest on the side of the chicken coop, perhaps in gold lettering. They will need a website and perhaps a mission statement. There is so much to think of.

“Two dozen. It must be two dozen,” Eddie maintains, poking me and fixing me with a stare. I give an involuntary shiver. If I am to be the egg equivalent of ‘The Apprentice’ then I will have to harden up and get used to dealing with such people.

“It’s pretty fucking important,” I explain to the chickens as I put them to bed. They have had it easy up to this point; now is the time they start earning their keep.

“My chickens have arrived!!!” exclaims Big A, from the other end of the telephone line, over the road.

I am pleased for him. His run has everything the modern chicken enthusiast could want – including a covered area, a bespoke constructed house and a letterbox – except some chickens. Now this gap has been filled, and he can join our international brotherhood. I give him my congratulations.

“What are they like?” I ask him.

A note of doubt creeps in to his voice. “Well – they look like chickens,” he ponders.

“I need some advice from the expert,” he continues. “What time should I be putting them to bed?”

I am an expert!!! The words resound with me resoundingly. I am so proud of my chickens: they have given me love, and eggs, and the status of an expert. And more eggs. I haven’t been the expert at anything for as long as I can remember. Truly these chickens have changed my life.

“Well I don’t let mine stay up too late,” I caution. “Except on Thursdays when they are allowed to watch ‘Heroes.’”

There is a bemused pause. I am not sure whether he knows that I am joking. They would not be interested in ‘Heroes’, or not the second series, anyway. That is the thing with being an expert – you have to watch what you say as people will take your word as law.

“I think one of them might have an egg stuck -” he begins.

“You’ll need to speak to Short Tony or Len the Fish,” I interrupt immediately.

Short Tony gives me a very satisfied look, like an Austrian who has just refastened his trousers having made a careful and contented tick on his clipboard against the words ‘Timmy the Dog’.

“You didn’t plant any in there this morning, did you?” he adds, anxiously.

I assure him that I did not. Five eggs!!! That is exactly one per chicken. Productivity is going through the roof.

I glance round at my new Egg-Skelter (R). This is a marvellous device for storing your eggs, and keeping track of which ones are freshest. It is overflowing with eggs. There are eggs piled up everywhere; on the table, on the surfaces. My kitchen is like Eggs ‘R’ Us. If I opened the wall cabinet, eggs would probably cascade out in a humorous fashion, burying me under a pyramid of them like the Tribbles in Star Trek.

I think the problem might be that I don’t eat eggs very often.

I should have thought this out more. If we are getting five eggs a day, divided by Short Tony and I, then that is seventeen and a half eggs per household per week. A quick burst of mental arithmetic reveals my usual weekly egg consumption as one (fried, with breakfast at the weekend). I have been coming up with new egg recipes, such as scrambled and hard-boiled, but I think my chances of raising my consumption by a significant factor are slim.

I have already given a half-dozen to Len the Fish. When you have chickens, giving people eggs is the most neighbourly thing that you can do. Unfortunately, Short Tony turned up about a minute later, with another half-dozen for Len the Fish. Len the Fish is now sick of eggs. I have given some to the other neighbours, but there are still loads left. I sense that what was once a neighbourly thing is going to turn in to ‘oh God here comes bloody Captain Egg again; pull the curtains and pretend we’re out, or vegan’.

The LTLP is getting a little tired of Egg Surprise for her dinner when she gets home; I am finding it increasingly difficult to populate my dinner parties. I am grateful to the chickens for their continued efforts, but if they could – haha – hahahahaha – ‘lay off’ – haha – a bit then I would not complain.