Years ago I lived out in Africa and I regularly accompanied my husband into the back of beyond, where he carried out his work.
On one of these trips he suddenly stopped the Landrover, leapt out and started scrabbling round in the undergrowth at the side of the road. He returned holding a chicken egg which was in the process of hatching.
I was despatched to try to find the mother but couldn't even find any sign of human habitation, let alone a hen. So the egg joined us in the cab and off we went. A shrug, a final heave to get out of his shell, and a lovely little chick emerged. I doubt there's another that's been born on someone's lap while being chauffered round the bush. He was named Carruthers.
We were on our way to a nearby town to get provisions; it was a cool day and the sky was overcast. We could hear thunder in the distance and rain threatened. Under normal circumstances the little chick would be tucked up safe and warm under his mum, so how best could I replicate those conditions for him?
I came up with the perfect solution. Which is how I came to be doing my shopping with a chick tucked in my bra. Of course people didn't know I was carting a newborn piece of poultry in my cleavage. All they could see was my bosom bouncing about in a rather unnatural manner as Carruthers shifted position to get comfy.
We got quite a few startled stares, I can tell you. But Carruthers didn't care and to be honest, my 32A's had never had so much attention from complete strangers, so neither did I.