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We sheared the goats. Well, Dad sheared the goats, and I sat on them. Now we need to drag the bath out into the garden, light a fire under it, clean the wool, card it and spin it. We can now see that one of the goats has mange - flaky scabs and red itchy skin on her neck and belly. Now she needs to be treated for the mites.
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This is not our wood. It's a wood in Essex. Our wood is awesome though. The llamas are chilling in it at the moment, but they'd rather be in the paddock where they have a clear view of any approaching predators. Whenever I walk past they look mournfully over the fence, eyeing up the tasty grass on the other side. Wherever I go animals are staring at me, looking me coldly up and down for a food bucket.
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I've grouted the stairs, painted a door, shredded a tree and wormed the goats. In the evenings I prepare my application for funding for the law conversion I'll be doing in September. I won't be going to Montreal - not being able to speak (much) French means that I'd have to work a minimum wage job for two years while Matt studies, and I don't feel capable of doing that. He hasn't decided whether he'll go yet.
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