Noah’s Ark

We have been seeing a great deal of the sheep. There was an idea tabled some while ago, shortly after they took up escapology (one of those ideas that women are supposed not to remind people about, which is called nagging) that the Geordie Ambassador was going to see to the defences this weekend but this seems not to have happened. In fact, nobody’s that worried, since we have got them sussed: they squeeze under the gate in the late evening, and beetle down to Barnyards’ hay store, where they spend the night snugly ensconced among the bales, out of the wind. Since they are now fed, they then mosey homewards to choff up the nourishing sheepnuts which, as they have come to realise, occur only in their legitimate field. In between whiles, they entertain themselves. They do seem to have some sense of where they should be: I looked out of my study door the other day only to see four guilty, scurrying ovine rear views as they reversed smartly out through the gate at the far end of the garden; it seemed that the mere presence of a human shadow reminded them that they were somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. I would on the whole prefer them to be confined but for creatures with brains the size of a matchbox they seem to be making quite sensible use of their freedom on the whole.
We had a visitor today who has been in the world all of sixteen months. A most endearing child, one of those interested children who accepts the world around and takes an interest in it. Miss Dog said it with slime, wiping her nose about his person with abandon, and he rose above it with aplomb (Miss Cat was not in evidence: she doesn’t do babies, as she has said crisply on a number of relevant occasions; she didn’t waft in till two hours after they’d all gone). We took him up to the Geordie Ambassador’s peaceable kingdom, and sat him on the Marshall Plan tractor. What is it about little boys? he seized the steering-wheel, saying ‘brumm-brumm’… it seems to be sort of built into them. Anyway, once parted from the tractor, he loved the chickens, and the ducks. But then we went to say hello to the Clydesdales. The ’uge ’osses ambled over –– I’d brought carrots, and then after a bit, the GA had come out equipped with a roll of Polo mints, which they adore –– I gave them the carrots, then the boss gave them some mints. The huge heads came arcing over the fence, the length of an adult torso, longer than a toddler’s whole body; they really are massive. ‘Look, Neil!’ said Mummy, but he seemed pretty blank. For quite a while, I really think that he could not see them; they were just too big for him to comprehend. But in the end, he sort of twigged, and his eyes went all round, and he said ‘Ooo.’ It looked as if his little world had just become a size bigger.

3 Responses to “Noah’s Ark”

  1. Andreas minor Says:

    Not a comment on ovine territorialism but rather on the much belated reading of the first of a trilogy by a good lady novellist. Actually, both an excellent lady and novellist, so much overdue congratulations from these parts on a beguiling and enjoyable tale.

    My copy has now been passed on to two intelligent Australian girls, the handover taking place somewhere in the midst of the Atlas mountains in Morocco (my reading of the said tome being completed on the fringes of the Sahara).

    The second part shall be procured (and subsequently commented on) as soon as I reenter land to which Amazon will deliver.

    Hope all is well in the frozen north - down here the weather is a little better, although the lack of any clocks going back has pained the local always-GMT populous a little. It being the start of Ramadan, it seems harsh that they alone have been denied a temporal helping hand over the fast.

  2. the canadian professor Says:

    Very mundane this one. So much easier to read ye entry when the calendar isn’t there. Perhaps it is the colonial machine, but it’s the only one I have.

  3. paul Says:

    These entries are all so well-turned, I can see everything in them.

    I always enjoy coming here to see what’s new in the Deep North.

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