Paper trails

 And then it came, rain, rain, rainy days. At least we have some grass now, although since we took the jackets off the ewes they are spending most of their time sheltering in the shed, wanting feed. The last few days I have been checking through the lambs to see which ones we may keep for breeding, compared to the ones off to the abattoir, always a tricky and unthankful task. I am pleased to say that Daisy's lamb has made the cut, if you pardon the unfortunate choice of expression, and will remain at Chauffour for a year or two as one of the finest sheep we have bred. That is, of course, if she doesn’t drown in a puddle first! We also have Roger back here. He was a young ram we bought 5 years ago, then sold to a couple 200 kilometres away, who recently sold up and returned to England and gave him me back. In a weird course of events, we are about to sell him again, to the people who have bought the farm from the folks who went back. I think they should rename him, Roger Zigzag!

Having decided not to go to UK to help get our giant cracked window pane replaced in Scotland this month, I am happy to announce they have managed the job without me, which gives me a great sense of relief whilst simultaneously making me feel rather unwanted. However, I have since been summoned over to UK, to do some work in my new career as someone who can spout rubbish for hours on end. Well, it is not exactly a new trait, but recent in the sense I am getting paid for it. For I have been asked to join the livestock commentary team for the Royal Highland Show, which this year will be held behind closed doors, but televised. So, if you want to hear me standing behind a door, check out a TV station near you on 14th & 15th of June when I will be prattling on about 30 different varieties of sheep for seven hours per day or until everyone dies of boredom.

This, of course, will rely on the fact that I have been tested for Covid some four or five times at scandalous expense, before I can set foot outside of my door into the Scottish wind and rain. The mission is far too complicated for me to itinerate and will require the skills of a Ghurkha, if only to collect up the trail of paper left in my wake.  Perhaps I should have declined the invitation in favour of sitting by our pool drinking gin and watching someone else make a fool of themselves on TV, but it's too late to back out now. On the subject of Covid, we have both had our first Pfizer jabs, not that our inoculation will save us from this testicle farce. Did I say testicle? I meant testing spectacle, but I think you get my drift.   

Meanwhile, also in Scotland, we wait to hear the news of not-if, but when, the nation will get another 'once in a generation' chance to chose to remain as a functioning entity or spiral into the event-horizon of delusional dissolution. In the event of the latter occurring, whether will Boris take time out from his wallpapering to rebuild Hadrian's Wall remains to be seen, but one thing I can be certain of is that our taxes will go up on the north side of it and that gives me the heebeegeebees. Personally I blame Mel Gibson for running around on screen in make-up and a skirt, and will be sending him a piece of my mind at the first opportunity!

Still keeping me busy, my podcast seems to be bounding forward in leaps until we have now attracted a main sponsor called Harbro Feeds from Aberdeen, in return for a couple of mentions per weekly instalment. Recent episodes have included a chap in Ireland who sells hundreds of cows per month on the internet, a man in USA who runs 45,000 cattle and an upcoming chat with one of the guys who cloned Dolly the Sheep. Who would have thought in my twilight years I could have found something that not only interests me immensely but thousands of other people too.

Finally: Finally, we are allowed to go to the pub!

The End!