About twenty minutes ago, I heard our letterbox flap lift and went to retrieve our Sunday newspapers only to find that they were still in the process of being stuffed through the gap. When I opened the door, the delivery man pointed out the egg on our doormat and said he’d been met by a flurry of noisy pigeon wings as he turned the corner to our flat. It’s been a few years since we’ve had an egg laid on our doormat and I thought that in the absence of feathers and twigs in over a year that they’d found a better place to roost. Silly me. The information that our doormat is reasonably secluded and therefore safe from predators other than the human variety, is obviously shared (by pigeon post?) amongst the birds in the neighbourhood. The delivery man told me quite sincerely that to have an egg laid on our mat today of all days was a gift from God and therefore lucky but I’d prefer a milk chocolate version any day.