Sarah Todd: Egging on the youngest to shoulder a new sense of responsibility

The Daughter has been away on a school trip so her little brother has managed to move up the ranks.

He’s normally the cushiest of souls, letting big sis – who is a natural grafter – take charge of feeding the hens and collecting the eggs.

But every night before bed this usually workshy seven year-old has set the alarm and been up before the lark doing the outside jobs.

One of his Silkie hens (regular readers will remember how his practical Godmother gave him a pair for Christmas after it came out that the “pullet” his sister took to Countryside Live was a cockerel) has hatched some chicks. She sat on nine eggs but we didn’t dare hope any would hatch. The thing was, we still weren’t exactly sure, in spite of the cock-a-doodle-do, whether her mate had, to put it rather crudely, any lead in his pencil. Anyway, one morning there were eight lovely chicks.

He told me off for filling the water too full. “They’ll drown in that,” he scolded. “You’d best leave it all to me …”

Then, at hometime, rather than slouching on the sofa watching Scooby Doo he’s been outside topping up the feeder with chick crumbs and collecting the eggs from the other hens in the orchard.

The real test will be this weekend. Will he let the returning sibling take over or will he stand his ground?

We’ve been lucky enough to have an old pony staying with us. At the time of the Royal Wedding it was mentioned that Katie had become “Kate”.

Like her young rider, she’s been stepping up to the plate as well.

My old mare is a big bully. She’s been the boss of everything we’ve ever had turned in with her. But not Kate. Her pencil-thin legs bear testament to a life many moons ago as a show pony. Just one flick of them, or a look – with ears back – can shift her field companion within a fraction of a second.

It’s funny to see really as the big mare will weigh three times as much as the pony.

The big horse is better for it. Much more pleasant to deal with.

Time to follow the lead and assert myself. Tackle The Husband about a sporting social life that seems to be healthier now than when he first started taking me out.

All puffed-up like the Silkie hen, he got both barrels when some woman rang to see if he’d like to play tennis. Play tennis? Last time this correspondent played anything she was at school.

Maybe that’s it. A hobby?

“Lego?” suggested a little lad with hen muck on his school shoes.