But the eggs.
The eggs change my life.
These bird are 18 months old and have been laying an egg a day since they fledged, now they have stuttered and may only lay five eggs a week, so they are not commercially viable. So the farm culls them.
At my place they have an acre of beachside sub tropical rainforest to scratch around in and look silly as they get used to living in the real world.
First day at nippers today - my daughters run in the soft sand and slip under the waves and learn what it takes to be a seven year old life saver - the beach not bleached with sunlight but a grey European teal with goosebumps and pregnant rain and mothers with arms crossed grizzling about the cold.
And Joe is hungover and face-purple - I could pop his head like a grape and spurt stale wine everywhere. And he complains about something and is itching for afternoon so he can recline and get back into the drinking.
And a whale bursts on the horizon like a comma, and we look away from our children and then a second whale lifts up, out in the air and we see it and inhale and then it is gone. And we hold up towels for our wet kids, nodding and smiling as we look beyond them, to see if the whales will jump again.
Hello Sober Sunday.