This week I helped kill six sheep, none of whom had knowingly done me harm, and all of whom showed appreciative enthusiasm when I chatted to them the previous night.
To say the lot of a farmer is a hard one has a somewhat obscene quality about it if compared to the lot of the sheep. Nevertheless, it is difficult for the sensitive mind to cope with abrupt juxtaposition of those most durable and adroit of bedfellows—Life and Death.
At least while sober.
Yes, I am a farmer—a writer/farmer, with the prospect this year of becoming writer farmer and politician. In a practical and emotional sense I owe it all to Maggie, whom I met less than 18 months ago and married last October—I think you know about that (if you don’t, let me know).
What you may not know is that Maggie and I live on an oh-so quaint cottage on a beautiful farm owned by Maggie’s sister and brother-in-law. We work the farm together, though much of it is left to my (new) brother-in-law Colin, who knows about such things. The closest I get to livestock is my computer mouse.
But on occasions, such as this week, I need to step in to help out.
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