By amazing good fortune we had a phone call from Ben tonight. Just as we got back to Rock HQ after attending Uncle Bob's funeral we put our new hens in the stable (Long story but Uncle Terry managed to get us 6 brand new Warren hens, lovely looking birds, anyway they are tucked up cosy in the stables while the horses are out on the hill) and had begun the chaotic feeding round. As I walked through the front door to get changed from funeral clothes to lets go wrestle the pigs clothes the phone rang.
Ben is fine, in good spirits but feeling the loss of one of his men. It was hard to know what to say to him, they inhabit a very different and dangerous world to ours, cliches don't help and I can only imagine the pressure of the second by second risk they are exposed to. We spoke of the future, and the really big glass of whiskey we will share at The Whet Stone.
I also told him off for not getting me an Afghan rug, apparently where he is there are no rug shops. Kids eh? Don't they let you down!
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