THE Child has been banging on about keeping chickens since the guinea pigs perished last year.

The idea of a supply of newly laid eggs appeals, so I did my research and invested in a hen house, a galvanised water feeder and a food trough.

My clever idea was to let the beady-eyed fowl roam the tangled garden from morning until dusk and then tuck them up safely in their little wooden house.

I figured I would buy a chicken run later.

High on my new project, I excitedly told friends, family and anyone else who would listen about my chicken-keeping plans. And suddenly everyone is a chicken expert.

Mum: “You can’t keep chickens, Karen. You can't let them roam the garden. What about the dog? You already have an infestation of mice. You will get rats. And disease. It will cost you a ridiculous amount of money. You are not a farmer.”

Best friend: “I don’t think you know the first thing about chickens. You are not a farmer.”

Dad: “The cost of buying the hens, plus buying a coop, which can run into hundreds of pounds, then the feed and time involved, makes it totally ineffective as a cost-cutting, self-sufficient exercise. You are NOT a farmer.”

I was beginning to sense a recurring theme.

However, I told myself none of them have ever owned chickens, so what do they know?

I have done yet more research and chicken keeping may be expensive for yuppies who get their Eglu delivered by Harrods and use water and food feeders made from platinum. But not for the average first-timer.

I am determined to own a clutch of hens. I will provide food and in return they will add to our wellbeing and provide us with healthy eggs with maximum omega levels. Not only that, I am convinced they will really be a lot of fun to have around, unlike the guinea pigs.

And as for Mr Fox, I have hatched a cunning plan – I will switch on the radio because I figure that wildlife, and that includes foxes, are not fans of The Archers.

Over the past few weeks I have shared my hopes, dreams and chicken ambitions with The Love of my Life.

He was not scathing of my idea like everybody else.

On Friday, my birthday, he handed me a beautifully wrapped parcel.

I tore off the wrapping and inside was a box labelled Chicken City. There was an instruction book for hen keeping plus a voucher for two chickens, food and a big promise to build me a PINK chicken run.

He said: “I love you and if you want chickens then you shall have them. However, you have to look after them properly and I do not want to hear any moaning about responsibility. Farmers have responsibility, it’s the nature of the job.”

He is starting work on my chicken run tomorrow and I am so excited.

I am convinced that the four chickens will be less expensive to keep and cause far less hassle than my greedy, troublesome dog.

And yes the number has grown already but chickens are happiest in bigger groups and anyway, what happens if a pair hate each other?

And so I promise to skip downstairs at 6am each morning, cheerily pick up my egg basket and – come rain or shine – tend my chickens.

It can’t be that bad, I read somewhere that sales of henhouses are rising by as much as 25 per cent a year.

And anyway I don’t care that chickens are supposed “me first” opportunists and social climbers. I just know that we are all going to love watching the dynamics between them, which I am assured will be frequently funny and often surprisingly complex.

We may even be able to swap eggs for gold coins.

I just can’t wait to welcome them to their new home.