Shorn of the Dead

That’s shorn as in shearing sheep. If you’ve ever seen Dawn of the Dead or indeed the comedic take on it called Shaun of the Dead, you’ll appreciate the terror of being shut in a building with banging on the door and the knowledge that there is no safe escape.

That’s what it’s like living here at the moment.

The sheep are obviously finding grass a little hard to come by and they all seem to remember that at some time or other, they found food inside the house. Hence they spend all day and much of the evening hanging around the garden, taking it in turns to bash their heads against the door. The smarter ones, well Freckles, have actually started pushing their heads through the cat flap. Davy’s life has acquired a new dimension.

Once I actually get outside, life doesn’t get any easier. Tiny, the lamb we bottle, and at times tube, fed has once again become a little friendlier. He doesn’t run away when I go to him and allows me to tickle his head. So cute.

However if I turn my back, the little sod butts me in the leg. Three times this morning. Luckily his horns are all over the place, so what, from his point of view, must look like a direct hit, is nothing more than a glancing blow. He looks slightly confused when he raises his head and I’m still stood upright. So head down and he tries again. When the weather gets better and there’s less mud about, I’ll do the decent thing and collapse in apparent agony at the first butt. I just hope he doesn’t get bloodlust and trample me.

Actually, more importantly, let’s hope he doesn’t attack the nice people who are coming to view the house tomorrow. They’re not local apparently, hopefully stockbrokers from London who wouldn’t dream of spending less than half a million on a house. Yes ours isn’t on the market for that price, but still it’d be nice if that was they wanted to pay for it.

A potter we know, told us about the time someone came into his gallery looking for a gift for a friend. They strolled around, hummed and hahhed and then seemed to descend on a single piece. “How much is this?” they enquired. “That’s £60”. “Oh shame, I was looking for something more expensive!”

Odd. However, more odd is the fact that this has happened twice to this potter in the last twenty years. So we might not feel too bad about dreaming of a rich downshifter offering an obscene amount of money for Mineral House.

I just hope we learn from the lesson an artist friend of ours experienced at a craft market two weeks before Christmas last year. With his stall set up, towards the middle of the day a lady started to peruse the pictures. After some five minutes, she gestured towards a picture with the price tag of £120 and asked if he’d accept £60. His reaction was a rather blunt “No”. She then suggested meeting in the middle at £90. Still “No”. At this point and with a hint of tiredness, she deigned to pay the full £120 asking price. At this point the artist said “No”. He’d decided that he didn’t want to sell his work to someone who didn’t appreciate the value of what he paints.

As the lady walked away, quite obviously abashed, our artist felt a momentary wave of delight at his assertion of his power as an artist. It was only momentary. His next thought could be summed up in 4 letters and he expressed a concern that his wife might find out about the incident.

Anyway that’s enough being sidetracked from whatever I was talking about before.

Got to go.