Listening to: Seldom Seen Kid (Elbow - yes, still, but it's that good)
Weather: lovely day, giving way to light rain
Aching: all over (floor excavation has started)
Drinking: port (left over from making the pork liver pate)
Molly's had enough. You can see it in her eyes. The poor love is shattered, hungry and desperate for a little 'me' time. She looked at me tonight as if to say 'get me out of here'. I'm a bit worried.
Compared to Kim, Molly is small, mild-mannered, gentle - a real sweetie. As it happens, Margaret Thatcher was a real sweetie compared to Kim.
The trouble is, Molly's 12 piglets bully her something rotten. They're well into solid food now and there is nothing short of a stampede when I appear with the bucket. Even if I manage to spread the food out so everyone can get at it, the piglets still pile in as close to Molly as possible and - unlike Kim - she's too nice to knock them out of the way.
Kim, admittedly a foot taller and 100lb heavier, takes no guff from her eight piglets. Feed time in her half of the pig shed is an altogether more well-mannered occasion.
I used to live next door to a mum like Molly. She never seemed to get angry, just very whiny. "Please don't do that Theo* my darling," she would be heard to beg as the apple of her eye spit-roasted the cat. Theo, of course, paid not the blindest bit of attention.
At least Molly only has another three or four weeks to go. It's a challenge for the sort-of pig farmer. Slapping her about the face and shouting "have a little backbone woman" is obviously out of the question. I have to make sure she gets enough food. I've taken to sneaking her the occasional apple and a big pan of potatoes was an excellent way to get food down her - she'd eaten the lot before the piglets could work out what the bloody hell these warm lumps were.
Today I've even held the feed scoop in front of her while she scoffed away - not very dignified, but we're not out to impress anyone.
An exhausted Molly lies dreaming of the single life
* Yes, he really was/is called Theo. I couldn't help but think of Kojak. He'd be school age now, but he's a stocky wee lad and I don't foresee any problems in the playground.
While I'm on, a couple of free ads. . .
It was my birthday the other day and, despite the fact I was 47 and would have been happy with beer, chips and an early night, Mrs Sort-of Pig Farmer decided we would visit The Creel at St Margaret's Hope - far and away Orkney's highest-rated restaurant.
It was bloody terrific. Fabulous fish cakes with an avocado tartare sauce, followed by sea bass, langoustines and scallops with mash and the most fantastic pesto sauce I ever tasted. I was able to kick off with a pint and then enjoy a wonderful, rich southern Italian white, the name of which escapes me at the moment.
It's wasn't cheap, but it was excellent. Save up and go.
The other recommendation is for Bidgiemire Pig Company. They once supplied a pig arc to Gordon Ramsey for Channel 4's The F Word and now they've stepped up a notch by supplying Westray's foremost breeder of British Saddlebacks.
Getting the two flat-packed pig huts to Orkney was, of course, far from simple with plans changing by the minute on Friday. To cut a long story mercifully short, they were superb, not turning a hair while I chopped and changed the plans. There's a link somewhere on the side of the page if you're interested - and I hope you are.