SECONDBORN has been hen sitting over the summer for our neighbours.

As everything we knew about hens could have been written on a pullet’s egg, she approached this task with some trepidation.

Her anxiety was actually well founded as the Foxy Gentleman who resides in the wood near our homes has helped himself to several chickens in the last couple of years and can be seen brazenly strolling down our garden path on a regular basis.

I had fondly imagined that the chickens – having been released from their coop for the purposes of foraging – would be easily enticed back with the rattle of corn in a bucket.

How wrong I was.

The Girl returned from her first sortie as chicken keeper looking slightly flushed.

“I think I’ve gone off chickens,” she said. “It took me ages to catch them all.”

After that we went over in twos or threes to do the rounding up after exercise time.

The problem, of course, is that hens enjoy (really enjoy) scratching about, dust-bathing and running around and don’t want to be cooped up (except at night). Watching our neighbour’s small flock of three made me feel sad for the millions of commercially-kept birds whose short lives are spent in wire cages, deprived of natural light and natural behaviour.

Ideally, we’d all have a couple of hens at the bottom of our gardens or only buy free-range eggs.

In fact, we’re seriously thinking about joining the growing ranks of poultry enthusiasts – Firstborn and his girlfriend already have.

I’ll be watching their progress with interest.