7.30am.
5.30pm.
Sometime during the day.
The pleasures of starting work at 7.30am are many and varied but I’m often in too much of a hurry to appreciate all the dawn activity. As I rush down the single lane track with five gates leading to Brooke Hall I am hopeful that all the gates will be open. Occasionally they are not and it is then regrettable but too late to allow extra time for the journey. Yesterday on my way home I knew the gate would be shut because it had been that morning. Before I got there I noticed that a flock of sheep had just been shorn, and were very pink and raw looking, some sporting shaving cuts. In the din of bleating they sounded distressed and looked rather pathetic, like llamas with short necks. In the next field along, the one with the road, the gate was shut and the sheep inside were angry. They didn’t move away when I opened the gate but got ready to charge and some got through, rushing toward their chums in a show of support. There was much shouting and beating back and, safe in the driving seat once more I did expect them to do what sheep normally do and run away. But these were militant sheep and they stood their ground, only moving off the road very grudgingly after giving me a long hard stare. The shorn sheep were the ones suffering an identity crisis yet the hot woolly ones were behaving like humans. It was a relief to turn on to an A road, I don’t mind saying.
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