I was quite disappointed today when I went to mum’s to do a variety of things that didn’t get done because I side-tracked myself doing something else entirely.
For the last week or so mum has been telling me that there have been rogue sheep in the area, just meandering around from house to house and keeping people’s grass short. My mum has seen them (but then she once saw a massive fungus on a tree, repeatedly, which no-one else ever saw) and so has my uncle. Just two sheep, on a lawn, munching away.
And yet when I go round to my mum’s and walk the same way she walked, and the same way my uncle walked, do I see the sheep? Do I bollocks.
I mean, they were seen by two people – one of whom has not, in any way, had a stroke – so I have got to believe they were real. And the lawn that they have been primarily seen on did seem shorter than the last time I went past – and given that it belongs to an empty house awaiting sale, sheep are the most logical explanation for the shortness of the lawn.
But I still don’t know.
I mean, mum is convinced there’s a weasel that runs through the garden. She’s seen the footprints in the snow, she says.
You’d have thought though, as they’ve been seen a few times, that I’ve have picked a sheep day to visit. I suppose it was raining when I arrived and, being made of wool, sheep are prone to becoming incredibly heavy and stretching when they get wet, so they could have been collapsed in a field under the weight of their own material.
Or they are just a figment of two different people’s imaginations.
Because the street that my mum lives on isn’t the sort of street that would take rogue sheep lying down. People would have been out, moving them on. Committees would be formed. There would, at the very least, be a laminated sign on a lamp post advising people not to approach the sheep if they are seen. Or some load of old bollocks like that, they love that sort of stuff.
I’m going back again on Wednesday… my fingers are firmly crossed.