Wendyl Nissen: Yolk is not on me

Hens mature - and start producing eggs - in their own sweet time. Photo / Thinkstock

The other day some kind soul asked me why I didn't write about my hens any more. "I used to love reading about their antics; they were so entertaining," she said.

"Because I hate them," I replied.

"I'm sorry? Hate is rather a strong word, isn't it?" she said.

"No, in this case it's completely accurate."

The truth is that last Mother's Day I was still in what is now known as my "hen mother" stage. I had three gorgeous little clucky cuties who would jump in my arms for cuddles and follow me around the property encouraging me to dig up worms and bugs for them. And then something terrible happened - two of them stopped laying eggs and the other one went broody.

"I think we should have a go at poultry breeding," I suggested to the family, but no one was listening. With the exception of one daughter, the family had pretty much rejected the hens since day one as a waste of time.

So I carefully placed some fertilised eggs under the broody hen and then we had seven more hens to add to the three. This put us well over the six-hen legal limit for our suburb, and two of them turned out to be roosters. So there were some "adjustments" made - otherwise known as being sent to my brother, who offered to "re-home" them. I have noticed that he smacks his lips in an alarming way when I drop them off.

Now we have five hens who bear no similarity to my original trio. They run at the sight of me. One runs away only so she can get the traction to run back again and launch herself at my feet, which she attempts to peck to death. And, despite being well over the age when they should be laying, only one deigns to do so, while the others cluck around eating all the food and producing nothing to show for it.

"Is it possible we bred a dud lot of hens?" asked my husband.

"They are just taking their time," I'd insist, as each day I returned disappointed from the hen house with just the one egg, having been attacked and glared at by all five hens.

"There's 'taking their time' and then there's just four dead losses," he insisted. It used to be his job to lock up the hens at night in their coop and he quite enjoyed it. I would hear him whisper a soft "goodnight little hens" as he closed the door and they would respond with a "coo coo coo". Now he doesn't have to bother because they prefer to sleep in the camellia tree outside our bedroom window.

"I hate you," I whispered as I filled up their feeder with organic chicken feed.

"You are an embarrassing disappointment," I hissed as I filled their water feeder with fresh water.

"Don't even talk to me," I snarled as they cackled and fluffed their feathers in indignation at the thought that I might enter their territory.

I went online and typed in "slow maturing hens", only to find that when it comes to maturing, there are no hard and fast rules. One just has to wait. "You have one month to go and if I don't see some eggs you're going to visit my brother," I threatened.

The next day I arrived home to find my daughter sitting on the ground surrounded by adoring hens. One was even in her lap having a cuddle.

"I worked out what is wrong," she said, gently stroking its neck. "All they need is love, just like our first hens. You can't expect them to lay if they're sensing your negativity."

And so I was put on a strict regimen of hen-loving twice a day. No more use of the "hate" word, lots of gentle strokes and clucks and some "mummy hen time", as it has become known in the family.

I was rewarded very quickly with not one but two eggs per day and then, just in time for Mother's Day breakfast, there were three.

Hen mother is back with a vengeance and my brother has been told to stop smacking his lips.