Lest we should suffer from the regrettable absence of the labradors, in the deep north under the benign despotism of Dr Biswell, Ben the trailhound has selflessly offered himself as a surrogate. He is an exceedingly handsome dog with strong and marked views on a number of topics, not least of them, the spot on the sofa nearest the window, where he is currently snoozing. We are having a rather quiet day, partly because it has poured with rain, and also because yesterday ended with a party; since four of the guests were members of a folk band and the hostess a musician, not unnaturally, the evening ended in song; a bodhran and a penny whistle appeared as if by magic, and our hostess got out her fiddle. An extensive and various musical repertory was plundered, and an exciting time was had by all. I did find it quite strange to find that at one point, we were all singing about the Barnyards of Delgaty, which is where the Professor and I actually live. Anyway, it was fun, but left us disinclined for much excitement today.

2 Responses to “Surrogacy”

  1. Jonathan Says:

    I discovered ‘The Barnyards of Delgaty’ for the first time last week. Yes, strange to think that this is where you live and unfortunate / amusing that the author refers to it in such unfavourable terms - ‘Sae fare ye weel, ye Barnyards, Ye’ll never catch me here again!’

  2. Jane Says:

    In mitigation, we are the other side of the hill: I refer to our immediate neighbour, when I have occasion to, as ‘Barnyards’, since he is the actual proprietor in question. I am sorry to say that his reputation locally is very much in line with that of his 18th century forebears, in that he is rumoured to be remarkably keen, even for a farmer, to get a job done for a wee bit less than the going rate. But it is Delgaty hill that lofts above our house as well as the Barnyards themselves.

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