“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.

“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.