My mother is horrified.
So too, am I.
That we have had to stoop to such lows is inconceivable, unthinkable.
Yet we have.
We are buying eggs.
We who, between us, own six feathered egg producers.
We are buying eggs. Not just occasionally, but weekly.
Our chooks are in mutiny. They are on strike. All production has ceased. Yet they still require our attention daily. Food, water, greens, and more are still demanded by birds who have not laid for weeks, and by the looks of things will not do so until spring has fully fledged. That's a long time away. It's a good thing for my girls that I am not the sort to shorten a life due to poor productivity. They will survive to see the warm spring sun, and give us eggs once more. At least they aren't scoffing bucket loads of grit any more. I guess they don't need it: moulting doesn't require grit. Grin.
So while we wait our way through the rest of winter, and ration our eggs, Mum and I will commiserate with each other over the negligent state of our chickens. And console ourselves with the hope that at least we will get good gardening in those beds when the chook cages move come spring.