My narrowboat, moored up on one of England’s sleepy canals. What better place to dedicate myself to my craft? Peace and tranquillity, a total absence of intrusive cares, woes and worries, eh?
So, there I was, tapping away at my laptop working on the my magnum opus, and suddenly there’s a fully-grown sheep licking the boat’s windows. It’s a distraction and no mistake. One moment I had my two favourite popular scientist types soaked and running for cover across a wild and lonely moorland (right into trouble, where I want them), and the next moment I’m staring down a woolly ruminant’s throat, peering deeper and wondering if sheep have tonsils.
I am not unfamiliar with sheep, m’lud, my sister and I had a couple of pet lambs (orphans) during that part of our childhoods spent on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. One of them, “Whisky”, died young…
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