Ever get the feeling someones out to get you, or you re being watched?
I had suspected for a while that my activity was being monitored, my every move scrutinised, watching, waiting, looking for a chance to create problems for me because they had nothing better or more productive to do with their time.
In the end they really couldn't help them self and had to break cover, pigs (real ones not metaphorical) of various sizes ran from the cauldron towards yours truly as I ran from Vic for the sanctuary of the cottage. The pork Tsunami broke on the yard and scattered dogs, cats and poultry while I changed from social worker to smallholder in record time. Armed with magic blue bucket (empty) I reassured bipeds of HQ that I would entice pork horde back to quarters and be back in time for tea and medals. Pork horde had other ideas and having fell for empty blue bucket once too often headed north at a brisk pace and showed no signs of returning as they disappeared from view.
Meanwhile, having discovered pigs no longer fooled by empty bucket I took a quick detour and collected a bucket full, which soon became half full having been mugged by Ferny Fern Fern from Ferntown. Nevertheless contents of bucket were shaken in a provocative manner towards last sighting of pigs and the universal "Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrmoooonah!!" along with "Piggy Pig Pig!" was hollered in the vain hope that the awol sausage factories would about turn and come quietly.
I was mightily impressed as they crested the brow of the hill in unison and at full speed. In fact they appeared quite anxious to comply with the piggy pig pig request and I turned to monitor the gate, pouring the pig feed theatrically into the trough as extra encouragement for the fastest of the racing pigs.
Actually they were getting all the encouragement they needed to proceed with haste back to the pig pen in the form of a huge yellow JCB travelling south with its bucket down ready to scoop up any pork that showed the least sign of resistance.
Safely shut away the pigs got on with supper while Steve and I got on with preparing the way for next weekends concreting. The mountain of stone used to create our runway (I say our, I mean mine and the voices in my head) is now in the spot where the next pad needs to be laid. Faced with ten hours shovelling or ten minutes chatting over a cuppa with Steve I chose tea. The scene is now set for the final push to completion. And then Roscoe and Rudy can come and stay.