Porkies

The dogs have recovered from their trauma.

Not only have they recovered, they have discovered a positively new lease of life, bounding about in their newly cool nakedness as cheerfully and freely as infant angels at the gates of Paradise.

Actually they look rather like merry piglets, although fortunately are less tiresome. We had piglets once, from two sows who shared a pen. One sow farrowed a couple of days before the other, and after that was entirely convinced that all piglets belonged to her and her alone. She pinched the other sow’s piglets, remorselessly, and the other sow had to stomp after her and pinch them back.

In the end, of course, the piglets philosphically settled into life with two interchangeable mothers, which was just as well because there were nineteen of them, one of whom Mark had saved at birth when it seemed to be born dead and was rescued from being early pork scratchings by being given mouth-to-snout resuscitation.

The interesting thing about the piglets, which is why I am persisting with this story instead of telling you about my day, was that one afternoon they were snuffling about noisily, digging up stretches of garden and generally being a complete porcine nuisance, when suddenly one of the mothers heard something that alarmed her.

She gave a grunt which was completely indistinguishable, to my ears, from any other pig-vocalisation, but nevertheless its effect was immediate and quite astonishing, because every single piglet fell utterly and instantly silent and collapsed to the ground, where they disappeared into the long grass.

From being a pleasingly noisy pig-playground, our field was transformed in a second to a silent stretch of countryside with nothing to hear other than the gentle blowing of the wind. It was quite amazing and I have never forgotten it.

But enough about pigs, because they are part of our long-distant past, rather regrettably, because I liked having pigs. They are a very good way of using up your surplus apple crop.

I have not got an apple crop to tell you about, not least because it is March, but I am very glad to tell you that today I have completed the last mossy archway in the conservatory, and they look splendid. They are as opulent and magical as one could wish for, and once the tomatoes and the pumpkins have grown over them, they will be quite astonishing.

The little tomato seedlings are up now, at least some of them are. I have not yet planted the pumpkins, because I do not think it is really warm enough, but I am absolutely longing to. There is nothing quite as exciting as the ruthless progress of a pumpkin plant through your conservatory. You watch them grow with wonder and joy, but you cannot help but know in your soul that they are just waiting for you to die on your sofa, after which they will eat you.

I ran out of moss before the end, and had to rush back to the farm for some more, and my hands are torn to terrible bleeding shreds by the wire, but I do not mind. I can see the last arch from my office window, enticingly lit with fairy lights and looking like a gateway to another world.

If I want to continue with this illusion I am going to have to do something about hiding the washing machine, which is almost as un-magical as the pile of sawn-up floorboards. Mark has offered to build a magical-looking garden gate in front of it but so far he has been too busy. I hope he does not forget. It is an unlovely washing machine.

Have a picture of a boy and a haircut.