My wife is funny.
Most mornings we wake to Today on Radio 4, and I gave up all attempts to change the dial to Radio 1 many years ago. However this morning I awoke to discover Kate playing Five’s Greatest Hits album over and over again. An odd choice of pop music to suddenly want to start the day with.
Then she suggested, quite forcibly, that we might want to pay a visit to Scotland this weekend, in particular to “Fife”. Why?
She then insisted upon reminding me that I finished work 30 minutes earlier on a Friday and so could leave for home at 5 o’clock. Well yes, obviously.
Perhaps I should hide the gin when I go to work.
Fortunately she was back to her normal self by the time I got home tonight and as I walked through the front door and ducked beneath the first plate, though unfortunately into the dessert bowl that closely followed it, I found myself relieved to be sinking rapidly into unconsciousness at the feet of my madly laughing, but apparently returned to normal, wife.
Later, when returned to consciousness, we were able to take pictures of Basil to remind us that when clean he is pretty well white, with a few patches of colour. Unfortunately the pictures will never convey how girly he smells. It’s like he’s been hit by a Yardley bomb, and the little ones haven’t been able to get close enough to him to wee on him yet and neutralise the smell.
When I picked Basil up, I did comment on him smelling different and one of the girls asked whether it was better.
I said it was.
I didn’t mention that his usual aroma was a result of the smaller dogs cocking their legs on him when he was looking the other way.
I think Basil was glad to see me when I went to pick him up. When I left him, he was whimpering in a pathetic way that was all the more pathetic coming from an 11 stone dog, rather than one of the little dogs.
Apparently the whimpering stopped the moment that I left and Basil resigned himself to being waited upon hand and foot by a troupe of young girls whose sole purpose was to serve him.
By mid morning I had received several phone calls to explain that we’d have to pay more to cover the costs of both the grapes he demanded and the time spent peeling them.
This evening we popped out to check the sheep and lambs and make sure everyone was ok. As ever some of the lambs derived immense enjoyment by hiding out of sight, however our focus was briefly distracted by on of the rhode’s looking like a broody hen on the track. Seemed a bit odd so we made sure we checked her on the way back.
She was still there so I picked her up to give her a check over.
That’s when it became clear why she looked like a broody hen.
She was sat atop a single chick.
We have no idea where she had brooded the egg or where she had hatched it, but somehow she had managed it. They’re now in a cat basket in the shed, which should be a little safer than the track.
Tomorrow we’ve a viewing at both Mineral House and Bridge End so once more fingers will be crossed.