Foster mother

See last post.  A twin with perfect Zwartbles markings – white blaze, white socks, two-tone tail – has joined its brother in the drying room under an infra-red lamp.  Jo is unhappy with the white plastic bucket arrangement and her designer’s eye strays to the wicker basket my grandmother used for cut flowers.  “They’d have more space in that,” she says.  I point out that ancestral wicker is porous and particularly difficult to clean.  “Don’t you think they look a bit squashed?” she says of her two steaming patients.  I can see her aesthetic sense is taking a bit of an agricultural beating but tell her they were probably a bit squashed too in the womb.  I’ve left her now, squatting on a stool in the drying room with the tiny lamb out on her lap, Practical Sheep-Keeping spread open beside her.  She is tickling it under the chin. I have a terrible dread of the morning.

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