52

"Ere, what sort of sheeps are you then"

Hyacinth gets her breakfast. I stay out of the way since the head-butting bull is in there too.

The Crofter is well. Or, well-ish I think. At least he smiled today. And didn't cough all over Hyacinth while giving her breakfast. That's must be a good sign and Hyacinth seemed pretty pleased about that too.

Dad crofter wandered up to the old village dairy today before the demolition commences so he could salvage some stock fencing that in all likelyhood would have got trashed. The dis-builders were already there but Dad Crofter gave them the eye and they let him get the stuff out. Or attempt to.

It doesn't suprise me that Dad Crofter gets his way. He used to be a biker. You know the sort, all black leather with fringes flaying off the arms, boots with metals bits, skull and crossbones on the back of the jacket and an over preponderance of oil. And his last steed was a Triumph Trophy - "that's the American model" he told me with a glint in his eye and a dreamy look as no doubt he recalled the days dispensing cheer and fear in equal measure around the lanes of Yorkshire. No doubt the American model was the one that worked - properly; without dropping oil everywhere it went and in a straight line and everything.

Its all back to normal down Crofters way which please me greatly.