You can’t have a decent conversation if there is a goat in the vicinity. They always butt in...

It’s thattime of year when the sun wakes up and beams a few warm rays our way.  Everybody is deliriously happy about ‘the goodweather’.  Suddenly joggers abound, theirchalk white limbs poking optimistically out of shorts.  I like the warmer weather.  It means the pooch and I don’t get rained onwhen going for a walk.  It also signalsthe start of various charity runs.
Yesterday,as I was picking up my emails, Eleanor stuck her head round the study door.
            ‘It’s Sport Relief tomorrow,’she said, ‘and I’m doing a sponsored run.’
            ‘Jolly good,’ I murmured spottingan email from Neighbourhood Watch.  HAVEYOU SEEN THIS GOAT? demanded the subject line.
            ‘Will you sponsor me?’ askedEleanor.
            ‘Of course,’ I said clickingon the email.  There was a mug shot of a goatwhich had apparently broken out of some neighbouring allotments and buggeredoff.
            ‘I’m running three miles,’ Eleanorcontinued, ‘so will you give me a pound a mile?’
            I read the email’s blurb.  The heartbroken owner of the goat begged foranybody with information to get in touch via a mobile number.  ‘Anything you want,’ I said absent-mindedly.
            Eleanor’s eyes lit up.  ‘Well twenty quid would be great, thanks Mum!’
            I decided to take the poochfor a walk and keep my eyes peeled for a runaway goat.
That eveningmy husband took me out to dinner.  I lookforward to Saturday nights as we tend to be like passing ships during the weekand it gives us a chance to actually see something of each other.  As Spring heralds the time of year for mebeing a golf widow, Mr V likes to update me with a blow by blow account of howhe fared around the green.  As there areeighteen holes on a golf course and it takes about four hours to go from startto finish, you appreciate Mr V’s recital isn’t a five minute tale.  I did lots of oohing and aahing and promptlyzoned out.  My thoughts travelled toEleanor and something about doing a run for Sport Relief on Sundaymorning.  Was that this Sunday or nextSunday?  And I really must remember to goto the cash dispenser and get some money out so I could pay the maths tutor andthen give Eleanor her three quid sponsor money and perhaps a little bit extrafor effort.
            I zoned back into Mr V’sconversation.  ‘And the ball was stuck inthe bunker but I chipped it out,’ he waggled his wrists by way of demonstration,‘and I said to myself, “Oh yes!  Eat yourheart out Tiger!”’ I privately thought that Tiger Woods might not havebeen in the bunker in the first place.  ‘Andthen...,’ my husband continued, so I promptly zoned out again.  I decided to bring up the subject of oursummer holiday when the next instalment of The Rider Cup was over.  I took a sip of Bacardi and, for a moment,allowed myself to drift off to a place that strongly resembled Paradise where turquoisewaves lapped white sand.  ‘So what do youmake of that?’ asked Mr V.
            ‘Amazing,’ I replied.
            ‘That’s what I thought,’ saidmy husband.  ‘I mean, it’s not every dayyou see a goat trundling along the Top Dartford Road.’
            Like a rubber band, myconcentration sprang back to reality.  ‘Whatgoat?’ I asked straightening up.
            ‘I just told you,’ said Mr V, ‘therewas a goat.  Trotting along.’
            ‘Didn’t you stop the car,’ Iasked, ‘and grab hold of it?’
            ‘What for?’ Mr V looked at meblankly.
            ‘To catch it!’ Iexclaimed.
            ‘Well, no.  I presumed it belonged to somebody,’ Mr Vlooked perplexed.
            ‘Didn’t it strike you as oddto see a goat happily heading towards Dartford?’ I asked incredulously.
            ‘Well yes and no,’ said Mr V, ‘Ithought it was being taken for a walk. You know,’ he shrugged, ‘like a dog. But off the lead.’
            I stared at my husband.  ‘What, as in the owner wasn’t far away andany second now would put his fingers to his lips, let out a piercing whistleand yell, “Oi Billy!  Heel!”’
            Mr V nodded in agreement.  ‘Something like that, yes.’
            I’vesince told Neighbourhood Watch that the goat was last seen heading towardsDartford, possibly toward the A2 where it might thumb a lift to London.  Meanwhile my daughter has presented me withher invoice to be settled at the end of today:
            One train ticket to London £5
            One Sport Relief t-shirt £8            Restaurant bill after race £15
            Sponsorship £20
            Total £48.

Where’sthat goat?  I’m joining it.