OK, I admit it, I'm a big, fat Jessie; a cowardy custard of the deepest shade of yellow.
We have far too many cockerels and a cull is long overdue, but I'm finding all sorts of reasons not to do the deed.
I don't know if it's because I'm soft. It's certainly not because I like them. With the obvious exception of Adam and Jarvis - who both seem secure enough in their status to be relatively easy-going - they are total bastards.
Five of the younger ones are especially deserving of a well-wrung neck. They have teamed up and now go about the place gang-raping any hen unfortunate enough to cross their path. I've got to do something, but I'm finding all sorts of excuses not to.
I've always been scared of chickens, so just picking one up is an achievement. I managed it today. I stood quietly behind him as he pecked at a few grains and quickly lifted him up. I should then have pulled his neck, but he looked at me, I looked at him and put him down.
The piglets are growing fast, just as their mum is shedding weight - lots of it. Poor Molly always struggles when nursing piglets; her backbone is sticking up and she is more grey and white than black and white.
Feeding her reminds me of shovelling coal into the Flying Scotsman at top speed. She's getting between 15 and 20lb of feed a day, but still can't seem to get enough.
The good news for Molly is that I'll wean the piglets as soon as possible - in a couple of weeks when they are six weeks old and she can get some well-deserved rest.