A real belter

The sun reappeared and while critters sought cool shade where they could I got on with big jobs. The Ryelands could have found more suitable shade up the leafy lane rather than crowd around Hazel, but there is method in their madness, they are strategically placed to mob yours truly as the new pig feed is distributed around the smallholding. It is a very different mix, it looks different to what they are used to and smells like a mixture of kit kats and custard creams. Given the reaction from the bovine, equine, porcine and canine inhabitants it can best be described as highly palatable. Hence the lurking little flockers looking for thirds.
A rare stroke of luck meant that the pressure washer was resurrected from death by the application of a new plug. For some reason the fitted item, one of those all in one sealed to cable efforts packed in so the pressure washer has been out of action so its only function has been as a door stop. A plug taken from a broken iron that is too good to throw away (hoarder? Moi?) meant that we had the means to clear the helipad of debris and paw prints. In between big jobs and chasing the goat I have felt sorry for myself despite the fine weather and progress made. This is because I was suffering. Tracey my beautiful and oh so patient wife would say that my affliction was self administered and that those that are hungover should not get any sympathy. Any attempt to claim man flu was treated with the derision it deserved as I could not deny sampling the whiskey collection at The Harp over dinner with friends. Promises of never again failed to stop the jackhammer in my head, neither did the complaint of but I only had three elicit any relief. Its a sad fact but I have to acknowledge that a night out means two days recovery time. Its an age thing. Like shouting at the telly.