I am desperate to own chickens. We even have a scrappy old patch at the end of the garden that would be a perfect home for a few feathered friends. Not to mention the stack of girls' names I never got to use on my human babies - they'd be just right for chooks, and I need to get the oestrogen levels up to even out all those boys.
But the reason I want them most of all is that there is no finer lunch than a perfectly boiled egg with toast soldiers. Dippy. Drippy. Delicious. Nuff said.
Egg cup is by Donna Wilson.
