It's tucked in the corner of the nest box, half-hidden under straw. Smaller than a walnut. A bit pointed at one end, a bit lopsided at the other. You pick it up and it's warm still, and lighter than you'd expected an egg to feel. The pullet who laid it is out in the run with the others, acting like nothing happened. No fuss, no egg song, just her scratching about near the water. And there you are, holding this odd little thing in your palm, wondering if she's alright.

Most keepers picture the first egg looking like the eggs on the counter at the shop. Brown, smooth, the size of the ones in the carton. So when the real thing turns up — pale, pointy, half the size, sometimes with a wrinkle down one side — the worry sets in quick. Is she poorly. Is something wrong inside her. Did she strain. And the pullet gives you no answers, because to her the whole business is new and she's already moved on to the dust bath.

Let's have a proper look at her, and at what her body's actually doing. A pullet coming into lay is running a system for the first time. The shell gland, the yolk release, the timing of it all — none of it has settled into rhythm yet. So the first egg is often tiny, because the yolk was small or the shell went on quick. It might be pointed because the shell set before the egg had rounded off. It might have a soft patch, or a wrinkle, or a bit of chalky calcium on the outside. That's not damage. That's a body learning the sequence of a thing it's never done before.

You'll sometimes get a fairy egg — a yolkless one, no bigger than a marble. You'll sometimes get one with no shell at all, just the membrane, wobbling in your hand like a water balloon. Those are the odd editions, and they're common in the first fortnight of laying. Her wattles will have come in red by now, her comb full and bright — her comb tells you plenty about where she is in the process. If she's carrying herself well, eating, drinking, mixing with the others, then the strange little egg is exactly what it looks like. A first attempt.

No rush — she's holding steady.

What you can do is keep her fed on layer feed, with a dish of oyster shell on the side she can help herself to. Her body's pulling calcium now in a way it wasn't a week ago, and she'll take what she needs when she needs it. Shallow water, close by. A quiet corner of the nest box she can slip into without being shoved off by the older girls. That's really all. The rhythm comes in on its own — usually within two or three weeks, you'll see the eggs start to round out, size up, settle into what she'll lay from here on.

Now — if the egg has no shell at all, and it happens once, that's the system finding itself. If it keeps happening, day after day, and she's looking fluffed and slow with it, that's the moment to see a vet on this one — then come back and tell me. Same if she's straining in the box for a long stretch, standing hunched, tail down, and nothing's coming. Egg-bound is a real thing and it wants a proper eye on it. But a single odd egg from a bright-combed pullet who's eating her breakfast — that's her body practising, love. Not a problem to solve.

The thing keepers forget is how young she still is. Point of lay isn't the finish of growing up, it's the middle of it. She's still filling out. Her frame's still setting. The egg you're holding was made by a girl who was a fluffy chick not four months ago. Of course it's a strange little thing. Of course it's small. She's small herself, in the ways that matter for laying, and she'll grow into the eggs the same way she grew into her feathers.

So put the odd little egg on the windowsill for a day, if you like. Have a proper look at it. Notice the point of it, the size, the way the shell catches the light. Then log it, or don't, and let her get on with the next one. She'll tell us what she needs. Warm mash tonight, I think — and a scratch of corn wouldn't hurt. Good girl. Back on the roost.