WE have a housing crisis. More to the point, appropriate homes for expectant mums. In this case, six hens who have all decided to go broody while I was away. Not keenly monitored by John, who happened to be engaged in such trivial matters as starting harvest, they have occupied various nesting sites, not all suitable, around the buildings in my absence.

So I found three hens crammed into one box in an old pet carrier, two in old feed troughs and one in an abandoned dog bed. Rehousing was required. After shuffling around housing stock, two are sharing a large coop in the paddock, two in old pet carriers in the hen house, one left in the dog bed and the other taking pot luck on the straw.

As there are already three other hens either sitting or just bringing off clutches of eggs, this means a severe diminution of my egg laying gang. And when I found one of the few eggs to collect had already been sampled by Roland Rat, I have decided we shall have a short sharp war on rodents tomorrow. Especially as Millie just missed killing one as it escaped into the bull pen. She is a cautious dog now about going in with Big Daddy Bull. He does not take kindly to busy little Jack Russell terriers.

I was helped in my re-homing task by a small, but enthusiastic, worker. Sophie, my two and a half year old granddaughter. A piping voice on the phone laid out a list of her demands before she came. To collect eggs, play with Millie, but not the other dogs (too big for me mamma), help pappa with the sheep and most importantly, catch Big Bad Barry, again, at the pond. I think Big Bad Barry by now is resigned to being caught, dragged out for a picture and then thrown back in. Probably thinks as soon as Sophie turns up at the pond...well, better get it over with as quickly as possible.

But great excitement today as pappa has decided that one of the fields of wheat is ready to go. Sophie is devastated that she is not allowed on the combine. Try explaining health and safety to a two year old. Her lower lip is dragging along the ground. Tears in her eyes. Pappa has gone from top favourite and hero to chief villain at the panto.

I am afraid however that he is in more trouble with me. Several months ago, on the forecast that by now harvest would be over, I booked tickets, at John’s request, for an Elvis tribute show. But I am afraid that It’s Now Or Never for this Hound Dog of a husband, to get on the phone to organise some help with combine driving. He needs to be All Shook Up by A Whole Lot Of Shakin’ Goin’ On that old dust bucket in order to get as much corn harvested before it rains again, otherwise the query of Are You Lonesome Tonight won’t be just be theoretical, it will be fact.