THE swelling was quite large.

But then I am used to palpating swellings.

Indeed, after thirty-nine years of practice, I like to think that I have got swelling palpation down to a fine art.

It’s all down to the tips of the fingers, of course.

They must be sensitive to size, consistency, temperature and discomfort. They must be gentle, so as to avoid unnecessary pain but they must also be strong enough to be able to assess the tissue beneath the surface of the skin.

They must be vigorous enough to hold but careful enough not to crush.

They must be able to distinguish various viscosities of fluid, from water to thick custard, and should be educated enough to recognise the differences in solidity between liver, kidney, prostate, intestine, spleen, bladder, lymph node, mammary tissue, muscle, tendon, ligament, bone and a myriad of lumps, from histiocytomas through hamartomas, from sarcomas to fibromas and melanomas to mast cell tumours.

And you should be able to accomplish swelling palpation with your eyes shut. Indeed it is an advantage to remove the sense of sight momentarily so as to focus your mind only on what is between your fingers.

But this one was quite different. It more than filled my hand, so that the palm was required in addition to my fingers. Its consistency varied throughout its substance. In areas it was as hard as stone. In others, light and almost spongy. Its position was most unusual too, in that it occupied the front of the neck, from the chin of my patient to the start of her thorax.

But then my patient was slightly out of the norm as well. She was a hen; one of the 927,216 (and still counting) rescued battery hens that have seen a life of egg laying in factory conditions replaced by scratching about in someone's back garden.

The problem with these guys is, suddenly exposed to the big wide world, they will eat just about anything they come across.

Grit, string, grass, baubles, hair bands, leaves etc. etc. all go down the hatch, only to be trapped in the crop; the expanded part of a bird's oesophagus whose job it is to grind up seed before digestion.

It kind of does the job of our teeth (because hen's teeth are rare.)

Pretty soon, the crop becomes totally impacted with this stuff and eating becomes impossible.

When gentle massage and lavage of the crop fails to produce a response, there is only one thing for it. No. Not neck wringing, but surgery.

After local anaesthetic, the feathers are plucked over an area and an incision made in the skin. The crop is exteriorised and opened with a scalpel to allow the packed material to be emptied, and then (drumstick roll!) you eggs-it and the whole shebang is carefully stitched up. Hopefully, with a bit of cluck, her delighted owner won't have to shell out for further treatment, as the cost is not a poultry sum.

If you want more information, or fancy rescuing a hen or two yourself, flock to the British Hen Welfare Trust website at www.bhwt.org.uk.