The Joys Of The Untrained House Guest

The Bed & Breakfast season is well underway. Due to the exceptionally fine weather of recent weeks, we've received an unprecedented number of bookings for the time of year.

People are booking last minute weekend breaks, and escaping to the Countryside to relax, unwind, and enjoy rural Dorset in all her sunny glory.

Thus far, all of the guests have been delightful; friendly, easy going, and gratifyingly complimentary about everything from the home-made marmalade to the imposing ingle-nook fireplace (which we lovingly restored to it's former glory, having discovered it by accident one Saturday afternoon - but that's another story.)

I have always enjoyed running the Bed & Breakfast. I like meeting new people, i love cooking, and the money is good. Obviously, opening your home to total strangers is not without its drawbacks. Guests are rather like Forrest Gump's Proverbial Box Of Chocolates - you never know what (or who) you're going to get next.
Every B & B Owner can recount at least one grim story, in which their faith in human nature is tested to a greater or lesser degree. It is deeply dismaying to realise that you are sharing your home with someone whose personality or habits you find repellent, particularly if their undesirability becomes apparent within the first five minutes of a seven day booking.

I'm a pretty personable character, but smiling sweetly and exchanging pleasantries at breakfast with a man who has been wiping his bottom on your White Company hand towels, is no mean feat.

Finding a urine soaked mattress when you make the bed in the morning, will lower even the chirpiest of spirits. Exuding good will and bonhomie requires enormous effort, particularly when you suspect that the wetters ( a fit, healthy couple in their mid twenties), are not afflicted with weak bladders. The absence of incontinence pads lends weight to your burgeoning theory. Your suspicions confirmed beyond doubt by the book on the bed side table. "SEX GAMES - all the things you've heard about but never dared to try."

That's why they've come away for the weekend, you think sourly as you peel off the sodden sheet. God forbid they saturate their own bed.

Jasper came in for breakfast as i was about to stuff the offending sheet into the washing machine.

"Why are you pulling that face?" he asked.

"Look at it! Covered in wee!" i replied furiously.

"What do you mean Wee? How can you tell?"

"Because it looks like the bloody Turin shroud!" i hissed.

"Poor people, they're probably really embarrassed."

"It wasn't an accident!" i spluttered.

He looked non-plussed.

"They were weeing on each other."

"Why would they want to do that?" he frowned.

"Oh dear Lord, do i have to spell it out? They were being kinky, you know, 'Water Sports'." I felt myself blushing.

The penny finally dropped.

"Oh, i see."

"Oh, i see? Is that all you've got to say about it?"

"What do you want me to say?" he shrugged. "There's a waterproof mattress protector on the bed, so it's not that bad. At least they're having fun."

I gawped at him.

Jasper's philosophical stoicism is one of his many admirable qualities. Whilst i have always appreciated the fact that he remains gloriously unperturbed by my propensity to over-dramatize a situation. i couldn't help but feel that his laissez - faire attitude about the pee related sexual proclivities of a pair of strangers, under our roof was a little unreasonable, particularly when i had to clean up after them. I had expected a small but discernible degree of disapproval. I was disappointed.

I was about to argue my point when there was a knock at the door, followed by the nasal Brummy tones of the peeing pair.

"Hello! Anyone in?"

I bristled. Jasper wagged a stern finger at me.

"Behave yourself and don't be rude." he said, before opening the door.

The gruesome twosome stood there grinning as though they hadn't a care in the world, clutching a wicker hamper, rolled up towels, and carrier bags stuffed with swimming trunks, shorts and snorkels.

"Fort we'd head to the beach." chirped the male. Black chest hair sprouted rampantly from beneath his wife beater vest and his pudgy arms glistened with Tanning Oil.

'Go on then, off you f***.' i thought, glaring at his crotch.

"Don't suppose you know what the weather forecast is?" the female enquired breezily.

"Mainly cloudy with some golden showers" i replied before i could stop myself.

"Ow No!" she squawked. "I hate getting wet!"

I snorted derisively.

"It's not going to rain, that was yesterday. Sunny all day today." said Jasper hastily, stepping them out into the hall way and closing the door behind him."

"That was very naughty of you." he said, shaking his head when he returned a few minutes later.

"Well honestly! Why can't we just have normal people come to stay?" i asked despairingly.

"We've had lots of people who aren't weird."

"Not for ages. Remember the family that stayed last month?

"Ah, yes. The Etheringtons. Not exactly The Waltons were they?" he said grimly.

Mrs Etherington had sounded perfectly normal when she had telephoned. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather and she told me how much she was looking forward to a family holiday.

Having booked a family room for one night, for herself, her Husband and their two boys, aged 8 and 14, she enquired whether our bantams were in a secure run. My initial assumption that she was concerned that they were protected from the Fox.

"No, no, i'm not worried about the Fox. It's our Ryan. He has some issues you see." she said vaguely.

"Don't worry, lots of children are frightened of poultry. They can't get out." I told her reassuringly.

"It's not whether they can get out; it's whether RYAN can get IN." she explained.

"I'm sorry Mrs Etherington, i don't understand."

"Ryan loves animals, absolutely adores them, but he doesn't know his own strength. He picks them up to cuddle them, and, well, sometimes they just, don't survive."

There was a pause, while i digested the information.

"But there haven't been any incidents for ages." she said hastily. "There was an unfortuneate mis-hap on a school trip to Farmer Palmers, involving a rabbit, but that was over six months ago. He's getting the help he needs now."

A shiver ran down my spine, and i was filled with foreboding. I fought hard to suppress a macabre image in my minds eye, of the headless bodies of my beloved bantams lay strewn about their pen, twitching and spasming in their death throes. The infant murderer looks on with a half smile, while Ave Satani plays in the back ground - a gruesome farm yard parody of The Omen.

"Are you still there? Mrs Miller? Hello."

"Yes, yes, I'm still here." i muttered, cursing my notoriously over-active imagination. I would just have to keep a close eye on the little Anti-Christ. We could shut the dogs and cats in the stables during his stay. The chickens enjoyed a maximum security des res, complete with electric perimeter fence, so they were safe from his murderous intentions, although i couldn't help wistfully thinking how much i'd like to see him try to get in.... I could plug the battery circuit into the mains. That would cure his issues; give him an electric shock therapy he wouldn't forget in a while....

A titter escaped.

"Did i say something amusing?" Mrs Etherington asked testily.

"Not at all." i said smoothly. "See you next week. Goodbye."

They arrived the following Wednesday afternoon, two hours earlier than arranged.

I came back from town to find their car outside the house; an ancient Vauxhall Cavalier, the colour of brackish pee, relieved in places by archipelagoes of rust. I surreptitiously peered in the windows. ( It's surprising what you can deduce about guests from their cars interior.) The first thing i noticed was the plethora of anti-animal cruelty stickers festooning the back window.

BAN HUNTING! screamed one. PETA. AGAINST FUR! raged another.

Not the most auspicious start, i thought gloomily, given the snarling foxes head on their living room wall, and Granny's ancient mink coat hanging on the hall stand.

The back seat was strewn with grubby, snot smeared muslin squares, empty crisp packets, and a handful of Mister Men books with the pages savagely ripped out and torn into pieces. Most ominous of all , was the decapitated Peppa Pig, whose severed head had been rammed face down into the splay legged crotch of a mutilated, shorn-haired Barbie Doll.

On the dash board was a tatty paperback - "Aggression and anti-social behaviour in children; a Parents Guide".

Despite the heat of the day, they were waiting for me in the living room. Although they could have occupied the space for no longer than half an hour, the smell that their presence had generated, hit me like a sledgehammer. A witches brew of sour milk, sweaty socks, farts and B.O.

Mrs Etherington was sitting huddled like a little mouse on one end of the sofa. She wore a dirndl pinafore dress, a greying pie frilled blouse and a pair of battered old espadrilles, through which protruded her grubby toes.

Mr Etherington was standing by the window, texting furiously. He glanced up briefly as i came in, muttered a vague hello, and resumed jabbing away at his mobile.

Mrs Etherington scowled furiously at his bald spot. "You'll have to excuse HIM." she spat.

"He's a little pre-occupied."

"No rest for the wicked!" i said in a jolly voice.

She looked at me with a pitying expression, and shook her head.

Suddenly, a bright ginger head popped up from behind the sofa, wielding a replica gun. Black eyes glinted evilly from beneath a neanderthally low brow, as he aimed his weapon at my chest.

"BANG BANG!!" he screamed.

I smiled brightly at him. "Oooh, you shot me!"

"YOU'RE DEAD BITCH! SHUT UP AND GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" he hissed.

"What have i told you about swearing ?" his Mother said wearily, without turning round.

Ryan made an obscene one fingered gesture at me behind his Mother's back.

"Did you enjoy the cake?" i asked, edging back behind the door in an attempt to block him from my peripheral vision.

"No, it was gross." cackled the odious little twerp.

"That's enough Ryan." murmured mr Etherington, without looking up.

"Enjoy your tea. Supper's at Seven. " i told them, bolting back to the kitchen, where i shakily poured myself the first of several glasses of wine.

By 7.30pm, they were sitting round the dining room table. Or rather, Mr and Mrs Etherington were sitting a the table whilst their off-spring chased each other round it screaming. The cat appeared in the window. Vile Ryan made a lunge for it's tail and it disappeared into the shrubbery with a yowl of dismay. Mrs Etherington sat scowling at her husband who was gazing vacantly out of the window, both seemingly oblivious to their rampaging children. When i turned around, Caleb was gouging a chunk out of the beautiful antique side board, which had belonged to Jasper's Great Grandmother.

Resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall, i politely asked him to stop, whereupon he burst into noisy sobs. Mrs Etherington gave me an accusing look, and started unbuttoning her shirt.

"Come to Mummy sweetheart." she said in a grotesque little girl voice.

Instantly, the snivelling stopped; his eyes lit up with glee as he rushed over. It all happened so quickly. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a gigantic nipple and a droopy blue veined tit, before the little brat's snot smeared mouth closed over it and he began to suck.

There was a wail of jealous protest from Ryan.

"Come on then, you too." sighed Mrs Etherington.

Out came the other tit, which Ryan dropped to his knees and latched onto as though his life depended on it.

I watched revolted, fascinated, appalled, whilst the pair of them gulped away at their mother with evident relish. Unable to listen to the obscene slurping noises any longer, i went and stood outside the back door. Jasper was taking his overalls off.

"What's the matter? You look weird." he said.

"Don't go in there." i whispered , shaking my head.

He ignored my warning and walked in. I heard the squawk of dismay as his eyes alighted on the surreal tableau. He U-Turned abruptly and emerged looking distressed.

"I can't get the image out of my head." he said with a shudder when we were lying in bed later that night.

"Me neither. Gross wasn't it?"

"One of those kids has got a moustache. It must have tickled her nipple."

"Don't think about it. You'll have nightmares."

At 3am i awoke with a raging thirst and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I paused outside the Kitchen door, listening. Someone was crying. I pushed the door open. Mrs Etherington was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a pink nylon nightie and weeping over a tumbler of Vodka. Her face was puffy and blotchy, her eyes like carbuncles. The tears were coursing down her cheeks and had formed two little puddles on the kitchen table.

"Are you alright?" i asked, idiotically.

She stared at me uncomprehendingly and took an enormous gulp of vodka, followed by a deep breath.

"Should have seen it coming." she said bitterly, shaking her head.

She was shivering like a whippet. I handed her a blanket and sat down opposite her.

"All the signs were there. I just didn't want to see them.." she continued.

"The late nights, the hushed phone conversations, constant texting, taking his mobile to the bathroom with him."

I was starting to get the picture. If i wasn't mistaken, Mr Etherington was indulging in some extra marital frolicks. I wondered if the Oedipal sight of his wife giving suck to his 8 and 14 year old sons had adversely affected his desire to have sex with her. I strongly suspected it might, but i kept the thought to myself.

"Is he seeing someone else?" i asked gently.

"SCREWING someone else! I bet they're at it like rabbits. Filthy slut she is!" she hissed furiously.

"Are you quite sure?"

"I've just managed to get hold of his phone. I've read all the messages. All from HER! Do you want to see them?"

I didn't, but I sat quietly while Mrs Etherington read them out to me. I was inwardly squirming - Some of them were very explicit.

"They met in a Cafe. She was reading Plato. Plato! She's supposed to be an intellectual, and she can't even spell Cunnilingus! Or Clitoris!" she spat bitchily.

"I can't wait to lock your member."

"That's just a typo. I and O are next door to each other on a type writer." i said helpfully.

Mrs Etherington glared at me.

"Anyway, she's welcome to him. I've given him the best years of my life, and this is the thanks i get. BASTARD!" she shrieked, slamming her glass on the table.

She leapt up and began pacing up and down the kitchen. The static in her nylon nightie crackled as she moved.

Her eyes darted wildly from side to side. She looked like a caged animal. I surreptitiously hid the knife block under the kitchen sink.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" i asked feebly.

With a maniacal titter sloshed the remaining vodka into the glass and swigged deeply. I cringed as it dribbled down her chin and splattered her bony chest.

It seemed there was no way out of the situation. I noticed, with a twinge of alarm, that she had pushed her chair against the door, thereby preventing my escape.

She tottered unsteadily for a second and glowered at me over the rim of her glass.

"Have a drink." she slurred.

I wasn't about to argue.

"Oooh, what a good idea!" i replied with a matey grin.

The bottle of Vodka was empty. She lurched towards the drinks cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Martini, which i loathe.

"My favourite!" i trilled, as she sloshed it into a mug and thrust it into my hand.

I had always believed that our atavistic survival instinct kicks in when we are confronted with a potentially dangerous situation. That in times of stress and adversity our automatic pilot takes over, and bears us away to safety on a heady rush of adrenaline.

Not in this case, i thought grimly. Here i was, trapped in a confined space with an inordinately drunk, mentally unstable female. I'd be pretty angry too if i were her, i reflected, taking a fortifying swig of neat Martini.

I tried to ignore the two nubbly, round damp patches forming on either side of her belly button.

I finished the Martini with a shudder. Mrs Etherington rushed forward, rubbery breasts jiggling, and topped me up. The damp patches were getting bigger.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked, fixing me with blood shot eyes.

"Oh gosh, i don't know. " i said gravely, looking into my glass to avoid eye contact.

"Rubbish!" she shrieked, smacking her forehead with a clenched fist.

"You must have an idea what you'd do if you were me!" she demanded, stepping closer.

Her breath was sour. I caught a stench of rancid milk and dried sweat.

Her eyes were bulging slightly and i noticed with alarm, the vein throbbing angrily on her clammy forehead.

She fumbled in her dressing ground pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. She shook three out with trembling hands and knocked them back with a slug of Brandy.

"PLease, help me. I don't know what to do." she whimpered pleadingly. In a split second, her demeanor had switched from bristling aggression, to plainitive vulnerability, and back again.

"And you can shut up! If i want your opinion i'll ask for it!" she hissed at the microwave.

"Bloody electrical appliances. Always going on at me; telling me what to do and how to do it. Interfering bastards! " she muttered.

I nodded sympathetically, and fought a rising surge of nervous hysteria.

She stood on one bristly leg, muttering darkly to herself, and throwing suspicious glances at the kettle.

My ears were throbbing with the effort of trying not to giggle. I have always found the wrong things funny. The graver the situation, the bigger the urge to howl with laughter; it's not born of callousness or insensitivity - it's something to do with releasing tension.

I was wondering how much more i could stand before i exploded, when i heard a creak of floorboards in the hall way. Mrs Etherington heard it too.

Her head whipped round. She glared at the kitchen door with preternaturally wide eyes. She looked like Sissy Spacek in Carrie, just after they tip the bucket of pigs blood over her head at the prom night.

The handle turned, the door creaked open. Mr Etherington's bearded, bleary eyed little face appeared.

What are you doing down here Sue? Why is there a chair against the door?" he asked, sidling in. He was wearing grey Y fronts and a Green Peace vest.

I sidled towards the door.

"No You don't!" she barked, rushing forward and slamming the door.

"What's all this about?" frowned her Husband.

She snorted derisively.

"WHat's this all about?" she mimicked.

"I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR TART!" she screamed!

Mr Etherington looked like Wind In The Willow's Toad after he'd crashed his car.

"DOn't be so ridiculous woman. What the hell are you on about?" he spluttered.

"Don't you call me ridiculous you little shit! I know all about your precious Sylvia!"

"Sylvia is one of my students." Mr Etherington replied in a sanctimonious voice.

"Don't you lie to me! I've seen the text messages. I know all about your sordid little trysts in Travel Lodge, and what you get up to. You disgusting man!"

"How dare you read my text messages!" Mr Etherington exploded. He didn't look remotely sorry.

"How long has it been going on?" she demanded.

"I'm not discussing it in front of Mrs Miller." Mr Etherington sighed.

"Don't mind me." i said.

"HOW LONG!" screamed Mrs Etherington, hurling her brandy glass at him. He ducked just in time and it smashed into smithereens against the wall.

"For Gods sake, control yourself woman!" shouted Mr Etherington.

Mrs Etherington rushed forward and punched him in the face. There was a sickening crack as his nasal bone shattered.

Mr Etherington was moaning in pain and horror. He collapsed on a chair looking faint while i rushed around trying to find a roll of kitchen towel to mop up the blood.

"I'm leaving! I'm going to find a big cliff and jump off it, and then maybe you'll be sorry!" shrieked Mrs Etherington, grabbing the brandy bottle and making for the door.

"You can't go out now. It's minus 3 out there." i said.

"Good, I hope it kills me!" she sobbed, staggering out of the back door and disappearing into the night.

To cut a very long story short, the Police were duly summoned and the search for Mrs Etherington began. She was discovered at 5am, passed out in a neighbours goat pen, beneath an old jute rug. Notwithstanding some nasty scratches from falling into a blackthorn hedge, and a torn night dress, she was none the worse for her ordeal.

A very apologetic Mr Etherington came and settled the bill at 6 am and informed me that they wouldn't be requiring breakfast. Mrs Etherington was sitting in the passenger seat of the car looking bewildered.

"Thankyou Mrs Miller. I'm so sorry you were privy to that dreadful scene." Mr Etherington said, picking up his suitcase.

"Not at all." i smiled.

I was watching the car drive away down the lane, when Jasper walked in yawning.

"Why is there glass and blood all over the floor?" he frowned.

"I'll tell you in a minute, but first i need a Brandy...."

Easter Madness

Easter Bank Holiday is upon us, and at the risk of sounding like a kill-joy, I am not in the mood.

I normally spring out of bed on Good Friday, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as the proverbial Easter Bunny, fizzing with feelings of end-of-term excitement and relishing the delicious prospect of a three day holiday. Three days! The hedonists equivalent of a three course banquet, during which one feels justified in spending 72 hours in a soporific stupor of sun bathing, drinking wine and socialising, preferably simultaneously.

Having just recovered from a nasty bout of gastroenteritis, I am in no mood for frivolities. I am feeling fragile and crotchety. If I were a horse, instead of champing at the bit with enthusiasm, I would be mulishly refusing to enter the stalls, whilst grinding my teeth and swishing my tail in a paroxysm of ill temper.

I have, thus far, managed to conceal my irritation. Jasper is so excited about drinking beer in the sun that I would rather bleach my eyeballs than pizzle on the roaring flames of his Bank Holiday Bonfire.

I grumpily went shopping yesterday for BBQ food. The Co-op was jam packed with people doing the same thing. Lily sat in her seat, gawping, as i steered the trolley through hordes of sweaty men in tight vests and weird footwear. As i trawled the aisles i wondered where said men materialize from. Do they crawl up through the man holes thrice annually? I never see them at any other time of the year except bank holidays, when they descend en masse, like a swarm of perma-tanned brill-creemed peacocks to deplete the towns beer supply. I watched them furtively, as they jostled and vaunted in front of the fridges, in their dazzling white slip on trainers. The wonderful smell of freshly baked bread that normally wafts about the store, was smothered by the cloying stench of Davidoff's Cool Water aftershave.

Lily gazed around her with an awe struck expression. Easter Eggs were piled high at the end of every aisle. A wall of golden wrapped chocolate bunnies wearing scarlet ribbons round their necks gazed down as i tried to negotiate my way around 2 trolleys stacked with booze. Lily stretched her arms towards them and looked beseechingly at me.

"Plis! Plis!" she gabbled, pointing desperately at them.

I grabbed a packet of mini eggs from a shelf, eliciting a beady look from a jobsworth shop assistant who was building a pyramid of Thomas The Tank Engine easter Eggs.

Lily spied Thomas' smiley face and shrieked with glee. My heart sank. Her infatuation with the cheery Tank Engine and his cronies began on her first birthday, when she was presented with a mini Thomas and friends train set. Since then, her fondness has morphed into a form of infant hero worship. Whilst Thomas appearing on TV is enough to make her giddy, she is utterly besotted with the Fat Controller; the sight of his poe faced, portly figure sends her into a whimpering reverie of hand wringing excitement. Her cheeks flush pink and she giggles coyly, clearly in thrall as she watches from beneath lowered eyelashes as he bustles industriously around on the platform in his top hat.

Jasper and I find her infatuation bizarre and hilarious in equal measure.

(Jasper's initial concerns were assuaged when i informed him that i had harboured a huge crush on King Rollo until i was nearly ten, and my Best Friend was tormented by inappropriate thoughts about Zippy from Rainbow until she reached puberty.)

Although Lily is progressing very well with her speech, she hasn't yet learned to say (or rather, shout) her hero's name in full. She manages the "Fat" part, but has only mastered the the first syllable of "Controller".

Confined to the privacy of our home, this unwittingly vulgar truncated version, has been met with great amusement, prompting epic giggling fits and whoops of laughter.

It didn't seem nearly as funny, standing in the middle of a crowded supermarket, hemmed in by members of the public.

Cringing, I managed to push the trolley through the gap towards the check-out. Lily, losing sight of her Top Hatted hero, let forth an ear piercing scream of rage, before bellowing

"FAT C*NT!!" at the top of her voice.

"Shhh. Lily NO !" i hissed.

She began to bounce frantically up and down in her seat, squirming and trying to head butt me in the tits, as i bashed the obstructing trolleys out of the way and try to broke into a run. There was a resounding crash as the corner of the trolley smashed into the aluminium strip of the freezer compartment.

"FAT C*NT!" Lily screeched lustily, and burst into noisy sobs.

"Ooh, look Lily, would you like a Haribo?!" i squealed in a demented sing-song voice, shoving a bag of sweets at her clenched fists. She hurled them viciously aside and kicked her legs up and down in rage. Everyone was staring. A little old lady on a mobility scooter shook her head in disgust, her face twitching like milk coming to the boil. I saw her mouth the word "shocking" to her friend, who looked equally scandalized.

A middle aged man clutching a box of beer and a fray bentos pie attempted to shuffle sideways past us. For a few seconds, he was wedged, his rippling belly pinned mercilessly by the unyielding metal rim of our trolly. He displaced a box of wotsits with his gargantuan backside as he squeezed by, panting slightly.

"FAT C*NT!" bellowed Lily, looking accusingly at him through a fug of tears.

The man turned puce.

"She doesn't mean you." i said in a strangled voice, as Lily lashed out in temper at his straining gut. `

"I'm so sorry." i cringe. "Lily, you DO NOT HIT PEOPLE!"

The man grunted and muttered something under his breath before he waddled off.

Face blazing, i made the long walk of shame to the check out, while Lily sobbed copiously and moaned "Fat C*nt" in a pitiful voice at everyone who walked past.

By the time we got to the car i was sweating slightly with horror and felt faint.

I arrived home to found a note on the door from our new neighbours.

Dear Jessica,

I mentioned to your Mother In Law that we would like to go to Church tomorrow for the Easter Service, and she suggested that we might go along with you. It would be nice to meet some people, and Jill thought that you could introduce us to the other villagers. We hope you don't mind us asking. Look forward to hearing from you.

Beryl and Derek Samson.

I had been planning to give Church a miss and laze in the garden with the Sunday Papers instead. I unpacked the shopping sulkily before making a batch of Easter biscuits which burnt underneath, and a Sinmel Cake which curdled and emerged from the AGA airless, dense, and sunk in the middle. When i tried to stick the mini egg "disciples" around the perimeter they all rolled into the centre.

My mood was not improved when i logged onto FaceBook and a friend appeared on chat with the words "Hello Fatty Pants." I bristled. A second message popped up.

" I meant Farty Pants. Predictive text!"

I pursed my lips sourly and went off-line.

I checked the time. I had half an hour left before Lily awoke from her midday sleep. Just enough time to have a bath. A nice hot soak would calm my shattered nerves.

I was just abut to step into the foamy water when the phone rang.

"Hello."

The end of the line was silent and i almost hung up , when a voice said

"Hel - hel- hello."

It was stuttering Bernard from Church Cottage.

"Hello Bernard, how are you?" i trilled through gritted teeth.

Bernard cut straight to the chase.

"Your bl-bloody d-d-d-d- dog has ma-ma-mated with my b-b-b-bitch again. They're locked to-together in the ch-ch-churchyard. You be-better come and ge-get him...."

Happy Easter everyone.

The Bring and Buy sale

By 10am, the nieces had produced 2 mouthwatering batches of chocolate brownies, a tray of rice crispie cake and a tin of shortbread.

The kitchen resembled a bombsite. There was a fine layer of flour on every surface, Caster sugar and hundreds and thousands crunched underfoot, and the overflowing bin was spewing empty maragarine tubs and eggshells. The freshly painted ceiling was now liberally splattered with brown goo and the cat was licking the butter.

The Church Fund Raiser was due to start in under half an hour and i hadn't even changed yet. My wheedling pleas for the nieces to help clean up the mess, fell on deaf ears. They were both too busy gloating over the fruits of their labour and writing swirly labels to advertise their wares.

"Cho clit Browneys - £5 each." Abi had written in giant bright pink letters on a piece of A4 card.

"I think that might be a bit expensive for some people." i suggested,

"And erm, that's not how you spell chocolate. Here, i'll write it and you can copy it."

Abi shook her head and held the pen out of my reach.

"No, i want to keep it like it is. " she replied, cocking her head to one side and admiring her handi-work.

"It's very pretty." i agreed in a placatory tone, "but let's just change the spelling shall we?"

She looked up at me and blinked rapidly before sniffing, a sure sign of impending tears.

"Mummy says it doesn't matter about spelling as long as i try my best." she said in a small voice.

"And she's absolutely right. " i said, feeling like I'd kicked a puppy. "You're a very clever girl. Let's put it with all the other signs so we don't forget. YUM YUM!"

The door opened and Jasper came in for breakfast.

"Good gracious - you girls have been busy!" he exclaimed, admiring the delicious smelling goodies.

The girls giggled in delight as he helped himself to a piece of rice crispy cake.

"And what have we here?" he wondered aloud, pointing at a flowery tin.

"They're mine." piped up Abi proudly, handing him the placard.

I bent over the sink refusing to catch his eye.

"Hmm, they sound fascinating. What, may i ask, is the key ingredient?"

"CHOCLIT of course. Derrrrr!" sighed ABi, shaking her head.

"Ah, of course!" he tittered. "Silly old me."

Forty minutes later, we had loaded the trestle tables and cakes into the car and after collecting the eggs and topping up the geeses water, we set off. It was a beautiful day; the lane was flanked with wild daffodils whose vibrant heads swung merrily in the sun, and everywhere you looked, the trees and hedges were blossoming with the first signs of spring.

"Can you slow down a bit? My pen keeps slipping." said Abi, who was labelling the eggs with black felt tip "£2.50 per egg. Bargin!"

The village hall was bustling with activity when we arrived. The Organiser, Bunty Bealing, came scurrying over when she saw us arrive, clutching her pearls dramatically and fanning herself with her clip board.

"Jessica! I thought you'd never come!" she cried, looking at her watch.

"Now, off you go and set up, there's a dear. You're there next to the Tombola." she said bossily, propelling me across the hall with a firm shove.

The Colonel was already manning his table and taking furtive sips of gin from a perspex pint glass when he thought no one was looking, whilst half heartedly trying to prize open the rusty latch of the antiquated tombola with a screw driver.

He smiled fulsomely and waggled his moustache when he saw me approach.

"Morning Mrs Miller! How fortuitous to be pitched next to you and your goodies! What culinary delights have you made today?" he boomed, peering at the various tins and tupperware through his pince-nez.

"RICE CRISPIE CAKES!" he bellowed.

"FARM HOUSE SHORTBREAD - my favourite!"

I whipped the brownies out of sight just in the nick of time.

Twenty minutes later the doors opened to admit the public. There was the usual rugby scrum as people rushed at the tables to grab any bargains, avoiding eye contact as they used their elbows to joust each other out of the way. There was a minor altercation involving two elderly ladies and a pair of hideous floral cushions from the nearly new stall. Neither lady had realised that that the cushions were for sale as a pair, until they both attempted to buy them singly, at the same time, whereupon Bernard, the stall holder, a timid looking man afflicted with Tourettes , apologetically informed them of his mistake. The two old ladies eyeballed each other over the trestle table. Had they not been separated by a mound of bric-a-brac, there is little doubt that there would have been a scuffle. Gone were the sweet, stoop-backed misty-eyed old dears. It was clear from their puckered mouths, flared nostrils and clenched fists, that neither was leaving without the others cushion. I pitied poor Bernard, whose condition was compounded by stressful situations. His head was now twitching violently every few seconds, each spasm accompanied by a low keening sound.

The old ladies turned and glared at him expectantly as he jerked helplessly from side to side. They looked as though they were waiting for the punch line.

He stared back at them for a few seconds, growing redder and redder, before opening his mouth and bellowing "BUMSANDCOCKS!!" at the top of his voice.

There was a stunned silence. Hollie and Abi's were open mouthed as they turned to gauge my reaction.

The day was saved by the Vicar, who strode forward smiling broadly, and guided the chuntering old dears to the safety of the Home Produce Stall, on the pretext of enlisting their help to judge the Best Cake Competition. Within seconds, all thoughts of cushions had been forgotten. The noise and chatter resumed, and Bernard slumped on a stool mopping his sweating brow with a piece of kitchen roll whilst kindly old Mrs Holloway from Church cottage plied him with sweet tea and Garibaldi's.

The nieces finished laying out plates of cakes and biscuits on the gingham table cloth, and waited for the punters. Within five minutes, and to Abi's great delight, a friendly young couple had handed over a fiver for two of the "Bargin" eggs. Having persuaded her to drop the price of the brownies, she sold the lot within half an hour, accumulating a grand total of £15. Having counted it carefully into her Hello Kitty wallet, she toddled off to the Toy Stall to spend her loot.

The Fund raiser was a record breaking success. All morning, people called in, to spend money and donate things to sell. A constant stream of people turned up bearing cakes and biscuits for the table. No sooner had a cake been put on display, before it was sold.

By 2pm, things were starting to quieten down. I was counting up, when an angelic looking toddler with blonde ringlets ran up and gazed hungrily at the remaining batch of pink iced fairy cakes. I smiled and pushed the plate towards him.

"Would you like one?"

"Thankyou." He whispered shyly, and reached out to take one with an awestruck expression.

The cake was halfway to his open mouth when a short dark haired woman wearing a stetson appeared in the doorway. She stood on the threshold looking around with a supercilious expression, until she spotted the little boy.

"CRISPIN! " she squawked. Her Cow Boy boots clunked noisily against the wooden floorboards as she strode towards us, mean little eyes ablaze with anger.

"How dare you run off like that! Oh my GOD - Is that a cake?"

As little Crispin watched her approach, his crestfallen face suddenly assumed a look of defiance. He looked like an escaped convict cornered by the Police. He hesitated for a milli-second, before ramming the whole thing into his mouth. His cheeks bulged and crumbs spewed as he tried to chew.

The Mother looked aghast. From her reaction, you would have thought that her son was chomping on a fresh dog turd.

"NAY! NAY!" she squawked. "What have i told you about Junk food? BAD BAD BAD!"

Crispin swallowed and looked unrepentant.

I stepped forward, cringing slightly.

"I'm so sorry, it was my fault."

She threw me a brief, appraising glance, a faint but unmistakeable sneer playing at the corner of her mouth as she took in my scruffy ensemble ( faded jeans and battered jodpur boots), and mentally consigned me as non-PLU. (PEOPLE LIKE US)

I smiled and offered her a glass of squash. I certainly wasn't about to take offence at some jumped up short-arse dressed as a barrel racer.

At that moment, Mr Wilmot, the Church Warden, appeared and introduced himself.

"Hello! You must be the lady who has just moved into the Old Rectory." he beamed.

"Yup, that's me." she replied, briefly twitching the corners of her mouth into a smile which didn't reach her cold fishy eyes.

"Mummy, i'm hungry." whined little Crispin. He was gazing at Lily's Rice Crispy Cake, like a dickensian waif drooling over a suckling Pig.

"Alright sweedy. Hang on a sec." drawled CowBoy Woman. After a brief rummage in her Gucci tote, she produced a small tupperware box full of chopped raw veg.

Crispin stared balefully at the unappetizing contents, before nibbling dutifully on a carrot baton.

A harassed looking woman in her late forties entered the hall, pushing a pram with a sleeping new born baby. She waved at CBW and came over, fanning herself with the parish magazine.

"That's my little sister!" said Crispin proudly, pointing into the pram and tickling the baby under the chin.

"She's a pretty girl. How old is she?" i asked.

"Eight days." he replied, kicking a piece of raw broccoli under the table when his mother wasn't looking.

"Mummy and Daddy are going on holiday tomorrow for nearly three weeks" he continued.

"How exciting! Very brave of you to go abroad with such a young baby." i smiled at CBW.

"Erm, it's supposed to be a holiday?" sneered CBW.

I looked at her, confused.

"As in, Crispin and the Baby are staying here, with Nanny." she said slowly, as though explaining something to a cretin.

"Oh. Right." I didn't know what else to say.

"Nanny is going to London next week to see her brother, so Tracy is going to look after us for three days." said Crispin, stuffing a handful of spinach leaves down his underpants. His Mother had her back turned and was fiddling with her mobile phone.

"Tracey is the new cleaner." volunteered The Nanny as she undid the baby's sleepsuit to change the nappy.

"Oh. Right." i said again.

The baby began to scream.

CBW dropped her phone back in her bag and turned to the Nanny, who was soothing the wailing infant with one hand, and trying to prepare a bottle with the other. CBW yawned loudly and checked the angle of her stetson in a compact mirror.

"Right, you can walk back with the pram Nanny, it does the baby good to get some fresh air, and i'm so exhausted at the moment. I need to get home and have a long relaxing bath before James gets back tonight."

I looked down at Nannys worn slip-ons, and the blisters forming on her heels. The Rectory was two miles away, mostly up hill. She looked worn out, but she nodded wearily and slung the heavy changing bag over her shoulder, preparing for the long trudge home.

CBW didn't bother to say goodbye. She was halfway to the door when she turned back to Nanny and called

"By the way, we'll have lamb tonight. There's a leg in the fridge and plenty of veg in the garden. You'll need to go into town when you get home because there's a case of wine to be collected from Majestic, and we're out of red currant jelly and a few other things. I'll leave a list on the table. Oh, and Nanny, please don't burn the roast potatoes again..."

It was such a beautiful day on Sunday, that i decided to make the most of the spring sunshine and clean out the animals.

I was out of bed at cock crow, and after a quick coffee i set off to muck out the pigs. I gathered my wheelbarrow and loaded it with shovels and brushes, and a bucket of milk and leftovers (the porcine equivalent of a three course banquet) and trundled along the moss dappled path to the piggery, breathing in the fresh morning scent of damp earth , and watching the first fiery rays of the sun shining brilliant red through the dark slumbering outline of whitmore coppice. Such enchanting scenes always fill me with an irrepressible sense of joie de vivre, and i stood for a moment or two, gazing at the wreaths of mists rising from the fields, listening to the chorus of bird song, and relishing the solitude.

The rest of the village was still asleep; i was entirely alone. I sighed happily and carried on my journey. Euphoria was short lived however. Rounding the corner to the pig sty, i gasped in horror, to behold an empty pen. Porgy and Bess had escaped!

I clambered over the fence and rushed into the spacious brick outhouse which comprises their living quarters. It was deserted. Closer inspection confirmed my suspicion that they had managed to wriggle through an opening in the back wall. It was a surprisingly small space and must have required considerable time and effort to squeeze themselves through. A small pile of dung lay on the floor in such a position as to suggest that Porgy, the fatter of the two, had become wedged in the gap and remained there for some time, stuck fast like a cork in a bottle, until managing to work herself free.

I glanced around in a state of panic. Where to start looking? Bulbarrow hill lay in the distance, its ridge shrouded in mist. Could they have possibly got that far? I didn't think so.

I faced east towards Sturminster, and had a surreal vision of them trotting into the Co-OP to buy the Sunday Papers.

I turned again and looked across the village. A wisp of smoke was curling from the chimney of the In-Laws cottage next door. Feeling giddy with horror, i rushed to the garden fence, bracing myself for a wreckage of uprooted shrubs, ransacked borders and an erstwhile immaculate lawn, pitted with snout shaped holes and strewn with pig poo.

My knees wobbled with relief to discover that everything looked normal in their garden; and there was nothing to suggest that the fugitives had paid a visit.

l retraced my steps and climbed the fence into the apple orchard. I was debating whether to call the Police, when i heard the umistakable sound of porcine grunting. The mist parted, to reveal the pigs. They were standing less than five yards away, rocking rhythymically back and forth as they scratched their hairy pink sides against the trunk of an apple tree. They grinned broadly when they caught sight of me and came belting over to say hello, wedging their fat faces into the feed bucket and slurping noisily as they guzzled the warm milky slops.

I heard a low whinny, and the muffled thud of approaching hoof beats. Tilly and Billy came bustling around the corner to investigate. Bestowed with remarkably social dispositions, Porgy and Bess stopped stuffing their faces and ran towards them to make friends. Billy, who had never seen a pig before in his life, snorted in horror, before turning tail and bolting out of sight.

Roused from his twilight sleep by the oinking, grunting and neighing, Bandit, Jasper's deviant Spaniel, appeared through the gloaming, beaming like the village idiot.

Pigs are his fetish - he finds them unbearably arousing, so the sight of them skipping and slurping prompted an instantaneous erection. He skilfully dodged the bucket that i hurled at him, before attempting to resume his debauched efforts of the previous Sunday, ( before he was interrupted by the Colonel's wife).

By the time i had restrained Bandit, secured Porgy and Bess, and tracked down Billy (who had leapt the paddock fence in a pig induced panic), Lily was calling me from her nursery and my nieces had arrived to make chocolate brownies for the Village Bring and Buy Sale that afternoon.

And i still hadn't cleaned the pigs out....

You may remember me writing about Dennis the Cockerel - former Enfant Terrible of the Farm Yard; a pugnacious tyrant, and rampant defiler of his female companions, who escaped the axe by a whisker, by dashing through the executioners legs on the day of judgement.

After his fellow partners in crime had been despatched, his attitude changed dramatically for the better. Not only did he find himself lacking the security afforded by the menacing presence of his mob, he was suddenly the target of naked hostility amongst the hens he had previously violated whenever he chose.

The tables were turned. For several weeks after the cull, he was an outcast. The hens refused to converse with him, tolerating his presence with ill concealed disgust. They would shun his attempts to make polite conversation, drive him away if he sidled up for a bit of corn, and heckle him mercilessly. They would not let him share their roomy perches, forcing him to spend all night squatting in a nesting box, which he must have found very emasculating.

He was outnumbered by 15:1. He spent weeks trailing along uncertainly behind them whilst they wandered around the farm. In time, he seemed to grow resigned to his lowly status, accepting their derision as the price he had to pay for his former treachery. He was cowed and humbled. I would watch him stand well back and allow them to take their fill of the chicken pellets, before he would venture forward hesitantly to eat himself. He waited until they were all safely in the hen house at dusk, before he followed them in, and he would gallantly put himself between the hens and the prowling stable cat.

Gradually, the hens softened towards him. After all, he was the only cockerel, and they could feel the Spring Sun on their backs. They begun to allow him to feed with them, and shortly after that, were making space for him on their perch. The final coup, was the day he was permitted to lead them round the farm yard, as proud as a King. He was a reformed character; gentle and kind, he treated each hen like a Princess, visibly thrilled to have assumed a role as leader and protector.

He is an extremely loveable character, and i have grown very fond of him, so i was concerned when he became ill a few weeks ago. I noticed he was limping one morning when he emerged from the hen house. Instead of hopping down the ramp and strutting off round the corner with the hens, he hobbled down stiffly and stood in the grass looking glum. The hens stayed close to him, clucking uncertainly, unwilling to wander off without him.

The next day, he was worse. I picked him up and examined his feet. There was a small growth on his right spur. He cocked his head and looked up at me while i inspected it. After breakfast, Jasper gave him a shot of antibiotic, and i thought that would be the end of it. We watched him hobble off around the corner with the hens.

A few days later, he emerged from the hen house in the morning and stood dejectedly in the garden. His once rich red comb was an anaemic pink, and he had the tell tale tucked up appearance of a sick bird. I phoned up to the dairy, and asked Jasper if he could ask the vet to call in on his way home.

It was midday when he knocked on the door.

"Morning. I've come to look at a cockerel." he smiled, stepping inside.

I showed him the cardboard box full of straw, and gestured to the little white silky huddled inside with his head tucked under his wing, the picture of misery and discomfort.

I picked him up as gently as i could. He barely had the strength to protest. He briefly tried to flap his wings, and then quietly allowed me to hold him up for the vet's inspection.

I stroked the bony ridge of his back through the soft feathers. Through the silky white mop that fell over his licorice black face, i could see his once button bright eyes, now dull and half closed in pain.

The vet scrutinized the growth on his foot frowning. I watched his face, waiting for it to break into a reassuring smile. Instead he shook his head and sighed.

I realised i was holding my breath as i waited for him to speak.

"The infection is too far gone to save him." he said, touching the foot gently.

Dennis shuddered and gave a muffled squawk of protest.

"Can't you give him antibiotics? Or amputate the growth?" i asked.

The Vet straightened up and shook his head.

"Not possible i'm afraid. There's nothing we can do."

I nodded matter of factly, but i could feel my throat tightening. Before i could stop them, hot tears ran down my cheeks and disappeared into Dennis' brilliant white plumage.

I tried to remind myself that he was only a cockerel, yet holding his fragile, almost weightless body in my arms, my mind was filled with memories of his glory days, when he ruled the farm with regal pride, lovingly guarding his hens.

I thought about his fondness for gardening, sidling up along side me and standing tall as he watched the trowel turn over the rich soil with jewel bright eyes. How, during a storm, he would come in to the kitchen and sit quietly by the radiator waiting for the rain to stop.

I glanced up and attempted an apologetic smile at the Vet, whose kind expression of genuine sympathy almost prompted a fresh bout of tears.

"So, can you, er, i couldn't bear anyone wringing his neck..." i tailed off, biting hard on my bottom lip.

"I can inject him, he won't feel a thing. " he replied gently.

I nodded, staring at a muddy smudge on the floor and listening to the receding crunch of shoes on gravel as the vet went to his car.

He returned with a large syringe. There seemed a lot of fluid in it. Dennis was only little.

I looked outside. The hens were gathered outside the back door , clucking anxiously, waiting.

"I'll inject into his chest, it won't hurt him at all," he said, parting the feathers on the breast bone. Dennis didn't struggle; a second later he was gone. His body went limp, and his head fell over my arm, the feathers splaying out sideways like a clowns ruff.

I turned and laid him in the box of straw.

"Thankyou." i said to the Vet and gritting my teeth. A tear escaped.

"Crying over a cockerel. Pretty poor show for a farmers wife..." i mumbled.

"Shows you're human." he smiled, patting me gently on the shoulder and turning to leave.

I stood still for a few moments, feeling slightly dislocated from reality.

A horse whinnied in a distant field, a tractor engine turned over and sputtered on the other side of the farm, a pair of magpies chattered crossly in a nearby tree.

Then, another sound. A sound that drowned out the other noises, with its sheer, almost palpable sense of joy at being alive.

I opened the door and stepped out into the dusk.

In front of me, perched regally atop the grassy ridge, resplendent in the setting sun, and crowing majestically to the heavens, stood a magnificent white Silky cockerel.

Dennis' Son.

Two Little Piggies (Part Three)

The pigs have been here three weeks now, and have settled in marvellously. They have been residing in one of the stables, whilst Jasper creates a purpose build Des Res for them, using part of the ramshackle pig pens up by the orchard.

I had not realised what characters they are; a most endearing double act with merry, inquisitive natures, a strong sense of humour and considerable charm.

On a nice day, they dig a trench in the warm, deep straw and bask contentedly for hours on end, shifting occasionally in order to stay within the patch of sunlight, which moves gradually across the stable throughout the day.

I am pleasantly surprised by their cleanliness. Whereas horses tend to defecate over every square inch of their bedding, making mucking out a somewhat arduous task, the pigs are very particular about their lavatory area, only using a small corner by the stable door, which makes mucking out a cinch.

When Jasper and Mother-In-Law aren't about, I open the stable door and let them run around in the yard.

After a few brisk circuits (they are surprisingly quick), during which they leap and pirouette for the sheer fun of it, they invariably trot over to the old water trough, which is the porcine equivalent of an Aladdin's cave; rich compost crammed with tulips, amaryllis, daffodils and dozens of other bulbs lurking beneath the surface as they push their burgeoning roots and buds towards the warm spring sun.

One day, they dug up the lot, and i found them grunting gleefully as they frolicked in the wreckage, snouts black with soil as they scooted about in the flower strewn yard. Subsequent attempts to vandalise have thus far been thwarted by a vigilant approach on my part. I never turn my back on them for a second, and any sign of impending annihilation is dealt with swiftly and firmly. (A brisk shove up the bottom with a yard brush normally does the trick.)

All things considered, they are a pleasure to have around, and Lily adores them, which is a bonus.

The weather was so glorious at the weekend that we decided it would be the perfect time to move them into their new abode . There are a row of four, fairly ancient, brick pig pens up by the orchard, the second one of which is in reasonable condition. Jasper constructed the fourth wall from giant straw bales, and sheep wire, effectively creating a spacious outdoor run for them to enjoy in the day time.

I felt quite excited about the prospect of their new pad, which I was sure they would be thrilled with. It's situated in a lovely position, with access to the Orchard, (they're mad about apples), all day sunshine and stunning views across to Bulbarrow Hill.

After Breakfast on Sunday, we went out to the stable. The pigs were sunbathing in the spring sunshine, but grunted amiably at us and ambled over to say hello.

We soon realised that although we had worked out where we were going to move them, we hadn't worked out how we were going to move them. Carrying them any distance was out of the question. Notwithstanding their considerable weight, they take a dim view of being picked up.

We scratched our heads thoughtfully and watched Lily share the remainders of her toast with them. They gobbled the scraps enthusiastically, then grunted lazily and flopped down in the straw.

"We've got two lead ropes. We could lead them there." Jasper suggested.

"I've tried leading them before. They dig their heels in."

"We could just pull them along then."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Have you ever tried pulling a pig?" i asked dubiously.

"I pulled three at The Cotley Hunt Ball in 1998." he replied.

I tittered despite myself. "Come on, be serious. How are we going to do this?"

"I know what we'll do. I'll back the car up with the boot open, and we can just put them in the back, then drive them up there."

Two minutes later, I was standing in the middle of the stable holding a lead rope. The pigs had backed into a corner and were watching me suspiciously.

"Come on little piggies." I cooed, tip-toeing towards them.

They grunted nervously and huddled together.

" You look as though you're about to pounce on them, that's why they're getting freaked out. Just act like you normally do and they'll feel secure." Jasper said.

"Since when were you The Pig Whisperer?" I enquired.

"I read it in Starting With Pigs." he said smugly.

I reached out to stretch the back of the one closest to me. It jumped as though I had poked it with an electric cattle prod, before shooting off into the opposite corner. I tried the same thing with the other one, with similar results.

I was still tip toeing around the stable, billing and cooing twenty minutes later. The Pigs knew something was afoot, and it was obvious that they weren't going to co-operate. I was getting fed up. I know that patience is a virtue, but it's something i've always been short of. I looked at my watch. The Eastenders Omnibus was on in ten minutes and I didn't want to miss it.

Having got almost close enough to touch one of the pigs, I threw the lead rope coil around its neck. It squealed crossly and plunged about on the end of the make shift lasoo.

"Sssshhh! Steady Piggy!" I said soothingly, to no avail.

Lily was whimpering in confusion. The second pig was rushing back and forward, unsure what to do. I noticed that the rope was sliding off over one of the ears, so i leapt forward and rugby tackled it, yanking the rope back round its neck and attempting to summon enough strength to grab it round it's rotund middle and bundle it into the car.

I had not reckoned on the reaction of a pig on finding itself in a half nelson. It went berserk. It wriggled out from underneath me, screaming blue murder and made for the door. The strength of it pulled me over, and I was dragged on my front through the dirty straw. Lily was screaming hysterically, the other pig was sprinting around the stable in dizzying circles, and Bandit was barking in a frenzy of excitement as he rushed in and out trying frantically to assess the bizarre situation.

"PIGGY!!! PIGGY!!!" screamed Lily as the lassooed Piggy plunged and thrashed and screamed.

"Get Lily out!" i shouted to Jasper. He had his back to me and was shaking violently, shoulders hunched. For a moment I thought he was sobbing, then he turned around and I could see that he was helpless with laughter.

Round and round went the loose piggy, leaping again and again over the taut rope that bound its hapless friend. Bandit zoomed in again, looking as though he were about to spontaneously combust. He darted towards the pig on the rope and nipped its curly tail, whereupon its screeching redoubled to a deafening volume. He sprinted out barking

"Let go of the rope!" Jasper managed to shout when he had stopped laughing long enough.

i managed to stagger to my knees and was cuddling the pig, attempting to soothe it, when Bandit shot in again like an exocet missile for another go. The excitement had proved too much for him; i didn't know he was sporting an enormous erection until, with a lascivious growl, he launched atop the pig and I where he commenced to thrust energetically, his lugubrious face a mixture of wild lust and abject confusion. (The last time i saw this expression, he was fornicating enthusiastically with an ornamental wrought iron pea cock at a friends Garden Party. Our howls of mirth did not diminish his lust. Only after his act had reached its conclusion, did he seem to realise what he had just done. To his credit, he at least had the grace to appear considerably embarrassed for the remainder of the evening...)

"Get your bloody dog out of here!" I shrieked at Jasper.

"EEEEKK!" screamed the Pig, as Bandit slipped sideways and began to jab rhythmically at its hairy sides with his grotesquely engorged member.

There was no shaking him off. He had hold of the neck of my shirt, as he continued to drive away at The Pig, scrabbling frantically to improve his grip, and uttering a lecherous keening, growling noise as he pushed himself towards the brink.

Such was the sordid scene that greeted the Colonel's wife when she peered over the stable door.

"Good morning Jessica!" she boomed.

If she was discomfited by this bestial tableau, she didn't show it.

Her sudden appearance seemed to shake Bandit out of his sexual reverie. After half a dozen half hearted thrusts, he climbed down, and walked off looking the other way.

I stood up, panting slightly, and pulled the straw out of my hair. The Pig stood quietly on the end of the rope looking shell shocked.

"Please, don't let me interrupt you. I can see you're fright-fly busy." she said, with a dead pan expression.

"I just thought id' drop the Parish Mag in on my way past, and i'd be frightfully grateful if you'd organise the Church Flowers next weekend."

Two Little Piggies (Part One)

For a long time now, I have secretly harbored an ambition to establish my very own small-holding of animals. I day dream about gazing out into a stable yard of geese, ducks, chickens, lambs and pigs. I imagine myself and Lily in our wellies, frolicking with our menagerie in the spring sunshine, petting woolly coats and stroking silky bantam feathers - an enchanting tableau of bucolic bliss, played out against a farmyard symphony of bleats, honks, quacks and grunts.

I have a recurring dream, in which we are entrants at our local Agricultural Show - it is a beautiful Summer day, and Lily, (wearing a Stockman's coat and flat hat) solemnly parades her prize pig around the main ring, before tottering out to rapturous applause, brandishing a big, shiny Gold Cup...

One day, in an unguarded moment, I mentioned my Grand Plan to Jasper. The fact that he didn't even glance up from his newspaper is testimony to how many ponderous whims and fancies I assail him with on a regular basis.

He chuckled slightly, shook his head and muttered "Don't be a silly bunny."

I bristled, slightly affronted by his dismissive response.

"And why is it "silly", might I ask?" I replied sulkily.

"You can't just keep animals for the hell of it you know. You're not Dr Doolittle."

Silence.

"It IS almost my Birthday. Can I have a couple of lambs?" I said in a wheedling voice.

He put his paper down and looked at me sternly.

"And what are you going to DO with these lambs? You can't just keep them until they die of old age you know. They don't stay lamb size forever. They turn into great, ignorant woolly sheep with horrid maggotty bottoms! It's all very well to pull that face, but it won't be you who has to deal with the maggotty bottoms; it will be muggins here."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Jasper shook his head.

"Look out there! What do you see?"

I looked into the garden at the two enormous geese strutting round the front lawn like a pair of bouncers.

I hung my head sheepishly.

"You smuggled those things in by stealth manouevre, and you fibbed about killing them. You never had any intention of fattening them up for Christmas! You just wanted them to waddle about looking decorative."

"I thought they were sweet." I said in a small voice.

"Ha! I'm glad you're using the past tense. They were sweet twelve months ago. They're not so sweet now are they? They're a pair of over grown, anti social bullies who poo all over the yard, wake us up with their bloody honking, terrorize the poor dogs and attack people."

"Attack is a bit of an exaggeration." I tutted.

Jasper took a deep breath and picked up a letter from the side board. I could see the Royal Mail emblem through the paper. Oh dear, I had forgotten about that...

"Dear Mrs Miller, we regret to inform you that on 15th February 2011, one of our Royal Mail delivery workers was menaced and subsequently attacked by your geese. I have to warn you, that should this happen again, I shall have no alter-"

"Yes, yes. I know what it says." I interrupted hastily.

At that moment, the man who rents the cottage next door pulled into the stable yard and got out of his car. As he leant over into the passenger side to retrieve his shopping bags the geese crept up behind him, heads lowered, hissing menacingly, before simultaneously rushing forward and grappling at his bare white legs with their monstrous beaks. He gave a bellow of fright, dropped his shopping on the floor and staggered to the refuge of his front porch, closely pursued by his attackers.

Jasper looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

"I know, I know!" I sighed.

Later that afternoon, Lily and I wandered down the lane to Ali's house. She and her husband have set up a fabulous small holding, complete with geese, chickens, ducks, guinea fowl, turkeys, sheep and goats. After we'd had a guided tour, and admired some very smart rare breed partridge, and I had lusted over an enchanting pair of Barber Danvers bantams, Ali announced "And now for the new additions!" and led us round the back of the barn to the old stables.

I looked over the door, and there, nestling in the straw were two beautiful pink and black piglets. They grunted a greeting and stretched luxuriantly. The sun streaming through the windows shone through their pink ears. It looked for all the world as though they were smiling. Lily was enraptured, mouth open as she gazed at them in wonder.

"Look Lily - Piggys" I whispered.

"Piggys!" she repeated in a hushed, reverential tone.

I was overcome by those dreaded, all too familiar sensations - the clammy palms, quickening of the pulse, a pre-mature stab of guilt; the same dizzying symptoms a shopoholic experiences shortly before blowing a months salary on a pair of Jimmy Choos.

The pigs grunted again. I breathed in their pungent Piggy smell and admired their curly tails. Beyond them, spectral-like, rose Jasper's face from the straw, puce with rage.

No, I mustn't.

"......they're great pets too. So friendly. We've got two left in the other barn if you know anyone whose interested."

Oh God....