Toto, i don't think we're in Croydon anymore

This weekend, in a departure from the norm, Mr Swift and i manage to venture further than the Spar at the end of our road (shock, horror). While Mr S went to Stanford Bride to see Villa get their arse kicked 7-1, I had a thoroughly entertaining day out at a couple of new exhibitions in London-town.

The first was the Ministry of Food exhibition at the Imperial War Museum to commemorate the 70th anniversary of rationing. Now, this was always going to be a winner with me; digging for victory, make do and mend – right up my street!

One of the most entertaining aspects of the exhibit are the ‘Food Flashes’; brief instructional films intended to help the public in rationing food and goods during the Second World War. Some were very tongue in cheek; others had become unintentionally hilarious with the passing of time. I recommend you go for them alone.

In an unexpected twist, the museum’s cafe is serving up dishes based on Ministry of Food recipes. I treated myself to Mrs Harwood’s cheese and lentil pie, which was so delicious i would happily eat it every day for the rest of the year, and chocolate syrup cake, of which i cannot say the same.

I then ventured over to the V&A to the Quilts: 1700 – 2010 exhibition. I’ve already documented my aptitude for other crafts such as knitting, but there’s always been a part of me that’s wanted to give quilting a go. I remember my Mother making a patchwork quilt for my Grandfather, gathering material from clothes given to her from various extended family members. My Grandfather died 13 years ago but the quilt remains in the family as a snapshot of social history of the time, and more importantly as a hideous reminder of some of the terrible fashions in the 80s.

The exhibition was full of incredibly intricate quilts that were breathtaking in their execution. However, i found myself most moved by possibly the least showy quilt in the place - The Changri quilt, created in secrecy by a troup of Girl Guides who were Japanese prisoners of war. There’s a link to their story here.

Finally, if that wasn’t enough i topped the weekend off my making my first ever Easter cupcakes. I hope the hardworking staff of Post Magazine appreciate them tomorrow. Never fear Research and Policy, if no-one dies over at Incisive Media I’ll be making another dozen on Wednesday evening.

RCC's first three egg day

Well done M,T and B! I couldn't be more proud if i'd laid them myself.

Viva Spring

Yesterday was the vernal equinox, the official start of Spring. Yippie!

Eggs traditionally play a big part in celebrating the vernal equinox. They were often eaten, painted or given as presents. As I’m in the process of recovering from gastroenteritis (happy days) I gave the eating part a miss, but I was very thankful firstly for the arrival of a busy season for the garden and also for the two eggs the girls laid.

On the subject of eggs i'm still none the wiser as to the second layers secret identity. I've formulated a new theory that these eggs could be the result of not one, but two girls efforts. Why? Well, we’ve had a mystery egg for eight straight days now. Chickens take 25.5 hours to make an egg, meaning if it was a single girl she should have had a day off by now (Margot's record is six consecutive days). The plot thickens...

Finally, we appear to have a truce in the hen/cat war as today’s picture demonstrates. Eli’s doing his best to pull off a nonchalant stance, I’m sure he’s secretly terrified. Long may the casual indifference continue.

Right, off to take advantage of the weather and plant some seeds.

P.S – you may have noticed that in today’s Observer there’s is a guide to pets in which some women promoting her soon-to be-published book on chicken-keeping reiterates the nonsense that hens are as easy to keep as goldfish. For the last time people, NO THEY ARE NOT.

“Who laid an egg like this? David, it's over to you.”

Imagine mine and Mr Swift’s excitement on returning home on Thursday evening to find not one but two eggs in the nest box! I’ll give you a hand conjuring up the mental image – picture a man and a women in their late 30s, jumping up and down in the pitch dark, asking a couple of chickens “Which one of you clever girls laid this?”

One egg was definitely Margot’s finest; 65g, mid-brown with slight speckling. Next to it was a small but perfectly formed 50g egg which must have been from one of the new girls (unless they’d shoplifted it from the Spar). Immediately photographed it for posterity then texted everyone with the good news. Dear God, just typing that makes me realise how tragic that was.

Only one problem with this tale of happiness – which girl had laid the egg?

I love a good mystery, so in true Nancy Drew fashion I set about hatching (ha!) a plan to identify the girl responsible. I figured the most obvious route would be to catch the hen in the act – Plan A. This was cruelly thwarted from the offset as only Margot laid on Saturday. Hmm, time for Plan B; analyse the new girls’ appearance and behaviour for any tell-tale signs. Both Barbara and Tomasina are exhibiting different, but equally compelling signs of being in lay. So that was Plan B buggered. Figured I’d start again with Plan A on Sunday.

This morning i let them out at 7am – no egg. Popped back to bed for a couple of hours only to check back to find another perfectly formed 50g egg. Marvellous - I find myself outwitted yet again by a bird with the brain capacity of a cheap digital watch.

Time for Plan C - the webcam.

Give a warm welcome to....

Barbara (top) and Tomasina, my two beautiful new hens. They have been at RCC for three weeks and have settled in nicely. We only had 24 hours of bickering before a new pecking order was established. Naturally, Margot is top hen. Equally unsurprising news; Eli is bottom of the order. He’s so uniformly hated by all three hens that they manage to corner him in the greenhouse and chase him up the tree every time the four of them appear in the garden together.

Max doesn’t fare any better. This afternoon Tomasina gave him a sharp peck (in her defence, he was asking for it), forcing him to retreat to the safety of the command centre (shed roof) to dream up a cruel and unusual act of revenge he’ll never manage to execute.

Gerry, our recently departed hen, may be gone but certainly not forgotten. Mr Swift and I have decided to grow a tree in her honour, so I am currently trying to source a dwarf cherry tree that we can christen Gerry the Cherry. Think she would have appreciated the comedy value.