Listening to: winding up to Hogmanay
Christmas morning in the bottom field and Briggsy the porker isn't a happy boy. He strolls out of the hut (he's normally out like a greyhound from a trap), he looks at the food I've so kindly put out, he yawns, he sips out of the bucket, he sniffs around the place and wanders back into the shed before snuggling down for a kip.
Hoping it's an off-day, the pig "farmer" puts some extra straw in the hut, tops up the water buckets and goes off to stuff his face.
Boxing Day brings no change and the next day Marcus visits to give the lad an anti-biotic jab. Sure enough, 24 hours later, Briggsy (second left on the header pic) is back to his old self.
The irony is that, in a matter of two or three weeks, Briggsy is off to Kirkwall for his. . .err. . . "conversion" into chops, joints etc.
I was concerned about Briggsy being unhappy, but maybe I was concerned about £300-worth of pork - this pig-farming lark brings up all sorts of dilemmas and stuff I'm clearly going to have to get used to dealing with.
I'm daft about the pigs. I want them to be happy and healthy, but I'm just as ready to send them off to slaughter. Bit weird, isn't it?