Simon is out, many miles away, in search of new bits of metal for his tractor (to replace the bits that regularly fall off and disappear into the mud or long grass), and I have another hour before I need to do anything with any of the animals. So, I thought I’d use this opportune bit of empty time to write yet another post. Continue reading
If you read Monday’s post, you will realise that Simon and I religiously take it in turns to get up early and do the animal chores. It wasn’t really a system we planned – it just turned out that way. Like he always makes the dinner, and I always do the washing up. And he makes the afternoon coffee, and I make the mid-evening tea. It’s funny how routines seem to grow out of nothing and circumscribe your life with sameness before you even notice it happening. Continue reading
Minus 8.5℃ and it’s my turn to get up early and do the animal round. My determination to ignore the rampant puppies’ six-thirty antics and cling tenaciously to the last vestiges of a not-long-enough sleep is gradually worn down by irritation, and imaginings of puddles on the floor. Surly and reluctant, I dress hurriedly in the chilly dark and stumble blearily to open the bedroom door and be greeted by two big, bouncy, waggy, wet-nosed bundles of exuberance. No one has the right to be that buoyant so early in the morning. I reinforce my rattiness against their mindless enthusiasm. Max, disdainful of their youth, and as keen as me to stay asleep as long as possible, plays dead in the corner. Continue reading
After three months of pig ownership, I feel a little pig review is in order.
The first thing I would like to say is that my estimation of the mental capacities of swine has changed. Pigs are not intelligent creatures at all. Or if they are, any cleverness they have is over-ridden and crushed to an unrecognisable muddy pulp by their slavery to piggish instincts. I recognise that it must be hard to project the aura of a University Challenge contestant whilst snorting belly-deep in mud, with sticky grey cereal-mash plastered all over one’s hay-spiked head, but even so…. Continue reading
Eight cats is a lot of cats. I guess that’s what you get when you wish a little too hard.
When we lived in Roquetaillade (with only seven llamas, four chickens and one dog) I really, really, really wanted a cat. My sister, who lives not far from our old house, had one. Then she found a wild, hungry kitten lurking in the workings of their tractor, which became house-cat number two. And I was greenly envious, and wished that the Universe would send me a random cat as well. Continue reading
Today I got an email from my Wise Friend which, in passing, drew my attention to the fact that we have not blogged in a while. With shame and self-castigation I realise that it is eleven days since my last post. Eleven days! That sounds like the name of a book. Or the world record for the number of days without sleep. Or the number of minutes than I can last without giving in to my disturbing addiction for googling things. It is also the number of days since the weather changed and our ice-induced idleness melted away in the warm face of all those Things That Need To Be Done. Continue reading
