My dabs of paint got out of hand

We are still marking up lambs, and the myriad of smits – the colour code of marks we put in the yows fleeces to tell us who the lambs’ father is – are now imprinted in my brain.

Yellow in the rib, that’s Colin, red in the middle of the back, that’s Steven, blue in the tail top that’s Dave.

To any outsider listening in, it must sound like the most normal of conversations. “Aye, Steven’s done well, we’ll use him again” and “Timothy’s mother is a grand ‘un”.

I’ve also been trying to have a late spring clean. I armed myself with a pot of white paint and set off to do the FRESH outside of the porch and the dairy. I just wanted to brighten the place up. Having coal fires means soot gets everywhere.

I started in the dairy after clearing some dodgy foodstuffs that accumulated over winter.

Foil packed chestnuts, tins of stewed prunes and a huge jar of stuffed vine leaves.

When did I ever think these would be tasty? Still, waste not want not – so into the chickens’ hen mash they went.

The problem was the new paint made everywhere else look dingy – so I ended up doing the ceilings, the shelves, the porch outside and in.

Painting the Forth Bridge sprang to mind, because by time the last brushstoke was applied already mucky handprints were appearing where I had begun.