Charlie likes helping me with the fruit. Today he especially enjoyed tipping the plums out onto the kitchen floor and skidding all over them while I frantically tried to save them. At least he decided to help me pick them all up. So he could tip them all again.

These past few months our little orchard has been producing more fruit than we can keep up with. It started with apricots, then plums, then more apricots, then the first of the apples. And now we've moved onto pears, more plums, and more apples. Three more trees of apples. We have buckets of fruit everywhere and are giving it away to anyone and everyone. And we're spending a great deal of our time doing this.

But it's wonderful not having to buy fruit. It's even better watching the kids pick and eat their own fruit, whenever they want.

The ducks are still alive and well, and continue to be a constant source of entertainment. Grace can usually be found somewhere in the yard with a duck under each arm, and she takes great delight in giving them swimming lessons and digging up worms for them to devour.

There is, however, the small but significant issue of gender that has her anxiously on the look out for the development of curly tail feathers. If they are boys, their tail feathers eventually start to curl up, but so far there's not a curl in sight. Just in case, we have prepped Grace for a possible name change. She isn't that keen on the possibility of 'Jem' and 'George and is remaining optimistic, assuring us that the girls will lay eggs any day now. 
 

Charlie, on the other hand, doesn't care either way. He's more interested in trying to catch the ducks by their necks, chasing them around and around the yard, and laughing uproariously every time one of them does an explosive poo.

A few weeks ago we picked up some new additions to our flock, two Hyline hens which had finished their professional lives as corporate layers but needed a retirement home to see out their days. 

As you can imagine, they are very loved, however the bantams did not share our enthusiasm. The first night our concerned neighbours called us to say it sounded like their might be something attacking the hens in the hen house. But no, it was just the hens attacking each other. Viciously. But they eventually they sorted it out, and despite a few ruffled feathers, an uneasy truce seems to have been struck. And, more importantly, everyone survived. 

At only 18 months old, Hattie and Penny were considered 'over the hill' commercially as they didn't lay every day. Luckily for us (and for them, just quietly....) they have shown their appreciation for their new home by laying almost every day for us.

It would be so nice to sit down to an evening meal and not have to go through this. Every. Single. Night. Argh!!!!

Meet mummy's little helper.

What you can't see is that he's emptied a brand new bottle of washing up liquid into the sink. That has his beanie, gloves and sandwiches in it.

This week I found a toy police helmet at the Salvos. As suspected, it was a huge hit. So much so that he insisted on wearing it to bed for his afternoon sleep. Best 10c I've spent in a long time.