The tooth factory
Mr Crofter Sir is still busy in the tooth factory as write this with my left hand, my right being bandaged to within an millimetre of it's life after being savagely stared at by an over amorous turkey. As a result [possibly] , the good doctors of the island removed the vestiges of that focused gaze yesterday in theatre and I'm left left-handed for the moment.
Dad Crofter wonders what got me.
Edinburgh agricultural show beckons this weekend and The Crofter is busy putting things in order before he makes the journey in the new [to-him] pimped up mobile that sits shiny and posey in the driveway.
Mobile all pimped up.
Don't quote me on this but me thinks Mr Crofter Sir will come home avec furry dice hanging shamefacedly from the rear view mirror. There, I've said it!
Dad Crofter guards the eggs
Of course, mum and dad crofter will be on hand to bring order to the chaos while The Crofter empties a crate of black sheep with his fellow Hebridean sheeps people. I wish him a safe journey.