Food for thought

I went to the post office the other day to get some stamps. Our local post office is the main office for the area, and it’s where all the local letters are sorted and sent out for delivery. Nevertheless, it’s a tiny place, with only one woman serving customers.

I buzzed at the door (don’t know why, but you have to ring the bell and then they let you in). Surprisingly, there were no other customers so I missed the usual opportunity to play the “how do I decide who’s next to be served when no one will form any recognisable queue” game.

The post-lady passed over a sheet of 10 stamps with a broad grin. “What’s this?” I said, staring at the large, dark-brown stamps, “It looks like chocolate.”
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Pigging around

I spent most of last week, while Val was in the UK, preparing the accommodation for the pigs. I had to close off an area of land which we had tentatively designated as the future vegetable area, and reinforce its boundary with the large llama field. Not knowing how escape prone they were likely to be, I erred on the side of strength with the fencing, and tested it out with the puppies for an afternoon, much to the entertainment of the watching llamas.

An old stone shed has been cleaned out and slightly refurbished to act as a sty, and everything was finished with at least five minutes of daylight left on the last available day!
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Pigs!

After a long day’s journey . . . . .

Just time for them to explore and eat some unfamiliarly lush grass before the light faded.

More pictures and information soon!

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Not Doing Nothing

I am in drizzly Derby for a few days visiting the progeny, and find myself momentarily alone and unbusy in my son’s house, with access to the internet and to that that weird and wonderful phenomenon known as Free Time. It is a strange and unfamiliar feeling, overcast by a sense of Waiting for Something to Happen, like a clear blue interlude in a cumulus-ridden sky.
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Puppy Dharma

So just what exactly is the best way to raise a happy, well-behaved dog?
Having watched other people interact in different ways with their canines, read a number of mildly entertaining puppy-training books, watched seemingly endless repeat episodes of The Dog Whisperer on TV (always wondering why I find that short, opinionated, but oh-so-calm/assertive guy so appealing), and read (with interest and scorn, in equal measure) lots and lots of stuff on that Evil Promulgator of Evidence-light Nonsense otherwise known as The Internet (including the views of The Original Dog Whisperer and The Real Dog Whisperer, ha ha) I have, as always, come to the irritating conclusion that there is no such thing as the Best Way.
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Puppy Love

I am on my own again for a few days while Simon is visiting his parents in England. Typically, Rufus has chosen this moment to discover that he can climb over the fence of the penned-in area where he and Stubbs have been residing, while we waited for the kittens to be big enough not to become a tasty meal for the Greedy Puppies, who will eat anything that moves, and almost anything that doesn’t.

I had forgotten what puppies are like. A bit like mothers conveniently forget the pain of childbirth, thus ensuring the continued existence of the human race, I had forgotten all the difficult and nasty things about puppy-owning that might (almost certainly would) have prevented me from agreeing to take these adorable little monsters off Florian’s oh-so-giving hands.
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