At this this time of year the hens unfailingly go into undercover egg laying mode. I object to spending money on hen feed when I cannot reap the rewards. Stealth tactics must be used in order to identify the 11 separate nests that these feathery, conniving gits secrete amongst the shrubbery. This means, after letting them out in the morning, I have to stalk them individually, creeping round the grounds in my dressing gown and wellies, hiding behind trees and attempting not to be seen. If spotted, the hen will nonchalantly walk off in a random direction, whistling, with its hands in its pockets and look busy, scratching and pecking until I go away. It requires patience, guile, cunning and the acceptance that at some time or other I will inevitably frighten the postman when he unexpectedly comes across me crouching behind a bush and looking shifty.