OUR daughter-in-law is expecting. Chickens, that is!

The joyful news was announced at the weekend, when we went to Surrey to stay with Son No. 2 and his wife.

We were all going to a wedding, where the boy (I know, I know, he’s 28 now, but he’s still my boy) was best man.

The setting for the reception was truly glorious - posh teepees in a steep, wooded valley that’s run as a kind of private nature reserve, with lush lawns, a grotto, and lakes populated by an impressive and friendly collection of exotic wildfowl.

I gather there was once a mansion, too, until it burned down.

We had a wonderful day.

Back at their rather humbler abode, our daughter-in-law proudly showed us a little hen house she’s acquired.

She’s built a wired enclosure, safe (fingers crossed) from predators, in a corner of the garden and the two of them are excitedly awaiting the arrival of three rescued battery hens in a couple of weeks.

Ah, but what to call them? That was the big question. Thinking of the hours we spent agonising over the choice of names for our babies all those years ago, I sympathised.

They’d been having fun dreaming up puns based on politicians (I can’t imagine where he gets his interest in politics from) and we joined in with glee. Obviously they had to be female, which rather limited the field.

Maggie Hatcher was a great one they’d already come up with. Theresa Lay was another.

Eggwina Currie was my husband’s brilliant suggestion.

Yvette Coop-er was one of mine.

Somehow I don’t think they’ll be going with my own favourite offering – Lisa Nando’s. I suspect it might be considered in poor taste, given the fate it implies.

Anyway, I thought that this being the last gasp of the silly season, when local news is thin on the ground, you might care to join in and come up with some suggestions of your own.

Emails to the address below.

n JUST seen on the Wiltshire website that the council intends to reform kerbside waste collections so that only glass goes into a black box, and everything else recyclable gets bunged into the blue bin.

Good. No more hours on a Sunday spent fishing through a tub full of rubbish in the utility room, sorting cardboard from paper and tins from plastic because we don’t have space for separate containers to store it all week and we’re too lazy to take it straight outside in the first place, or it’s raining, or the dog needs feeding, or whatever.

I couldn’t find anything to say whether we’ll be given bigger blue bins to hold all that stuff. But I’m sure my household will need one.

anneriddle36@gmail.com