Where sheep may safely graze

The lambs are nice and fat now. Nearly ready for eating. They stand on their hind legs, nibbling in the hedgerows while their mothers are forlorn and shorn. The old girls look embarrassed, like women who have suddenly realised they are not as attractive as they once were in short skirts and crop tops while the years advance and the children get bigger and more demanding.

It's the lambs we want on our plates, not mutton.

Up on the hill, the slopes are nicely manicured, ploughed with rows made by a giant's comb.

The ground is saturated and hosepipe bans are lifted. The sky is full of water from an overloaded paint brush and it's smudging at the edges.

Posters on telegraph poles advertising our parish plan are unreadable because we've had so much rain. And in the Grigg front hall are boxes and boxes of wine for an evening later this week when the future of our village shop is finally unveiled.

And then a woman stops me and says:' Are you the one who writes the blog? I've worked out who everyone is.'

Time for me to stop, perhaps, I think. I might be found out as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x