I was sitting up in the Professor’s study harmlessly emailing about the place when there was a tremendous outbreak of scuttering from downstairs. Aha, I thought. Miss New Best Friend has turned up, and they are playing a tremendous Silly Bitch game of ‘run round and round the house in figures of eight until we’re dizzy’. Not a bit of it. I went down to retrieve some bit of info from a notebook, to find the Hero Biswell washing his hands. The blasted sheep (who had not been sighted for a couple of days) had simply stormed into the house to have a good look round. Poor Miss Dog was quaking on the sofa in abject fright. They had crapped, naturally, all over the floor & poor Dr B had dealt manfully with the result rather than getting me to come down and help, which I think is pretty damn good of him. But the cheek of the things! I ask you! Where’s it going to end? Some morning or other I’ll open my eyes and there will be Napoleon the Sheep lolling on the end of the bed saying ‘Duvets, eh? What a good idea. When’s breakfast?’ — We are going to eat Napoleon the Sheep. That’s DEFINITE. Even the Northern Professor, who’s vegetarian, will have a token chunk, just to reaffirm the Great Chain of Being.