On the Hoof

It’s my own fault of course. I rather smugly slip it into a blog a couple of weeks ago that I may, just may, be approaching a period of life contentment and since then things have, on an almost daily basis, risen up and taken a whacking great lump out of my backside. I know what it was and I can pinpoint the moment.
I had re-installed the well pump after its necessary winter hibernation and, for the first time ever, had managed it first time and with no recourse to visit, and re-visit, the quincailleriefor parts, bits, tools and non-shorn piping. This year it took twenty minutes.
It lasted two bloody days.
The well pump is vital. In the summer it feeds water all around the property from the stables to the allotment to the swimming pool; there is a vast, subterranean network of pipes and hoses so when the pump fails to retain its pressure the fear is always that somewhere underground there is a leak and we are buggered.
Getting the pump to work is a matter of re-wiring, re-plumbing, re-pressurising and hopefully rejoicing when the water eventually comes gushing out of the top of the pump like we’ve struck oil. I get drenched in the stuff, the kids laugh and winter is officially over. But after two days it broke down and though water was still reaching far-flung taps and irrigation systems the pump was straining to do its job and not holding the pressure. I set about the thing with sweary abandon, isolating this and tweaking that, so that every half an hour or so we had the gushing fountain, the soaking dad and the giggling kids which is all very well if it happens once or twice but after about eight times the humour leaves the situation entirely and the kids see their dad in a pitiful cycle of sodden pain, anger and misery that will stay with them always. Like You’ve Been Framed on repeat, it’s not funny anymore, it’s cruel.
On top of this the goats, en masse, had broken into the orchard again and I was ready to sell up and move into a bedsit somewhere that could at least promise running water and a livestock-free fruitbowl.  Natalie was equally too busy to deal with the goats as she was at that moment helping the vet file Junior’s teeth, and I don’t mean alphabetise them and store them away. There was an ominous silence coming from where I thought there should be lots of neighing and admonishing but when I rounded the corner I could see why. The vet, in truth larger than either of the horses, had attached Junior to what looked like an equine harmonica holder but which held his lips back and opened his mouth at the same time. It was a fearful contraption and while she set about Junior’s teeth with what looked like a pneumatic drill Natalie was trying her best to hold Junior back and his tongue to one side, even though the livid beast had been sedated. She was, in truth, struggling to do so and Junior, not used to such ignominy, was staring wild-eyed at the vet like the minute he was released he was going to tear her apart.
When I appeared, soaking wet and apparently covered in sopping rust, his demeanour changed and rather than the maniacal, swivel eyed look he was giving the vet he stared at me instead in a much calmer, much colder way. I’ve seen documentaries about how Mike Tyson used to beat opponents before a punch had been thrown just by the steely-eyed, murderous stare he gave them when they came into the ring; it was like that and I decided to back away and deal with the goats myself before I was roped in to separate Junior and the vet.
I wasn’t in the mood for goats. I’d arrived back home early that morning from one night in London and I hadn’t slept for nearly thirty hours and though I can normally manage this in some kind of good-ish humour, Poitiers airport had left its mark. The ticket machine for the car park was en panne again so I had to queue to pay at the electronic barrier where there isn’t an official car park attendant but an opportunistic tramp who will put the ticket in the machine for you while expecting some recompense. I don’t actually mind this, my car is right hand drive and the barrier designed for a left hand drive, so it helps smooth the process. The tramp though was in an even worse mood than me.
“Why have you got the ticket in your mouth you idiot? It’s a magnetic strip! You’ll break it!”
“What?!” I started, a bit taken aback to be honest.
“Take it out of your mouth! It won’t work!”
“Sod off!” I responded and proceeded to stretch myself across the passenger seat in order to cut him out of the entire process altogether.
“Well it won’t work!” He said again, “Idiot!” He was wrong, it did work but as I managed to try and sit back upright without pulling a hernia, stare him down triumphantly and give him the finger my foot slipped and the car went careering off onto a verge, narrowly missing a fence post as I grappled with the steering wheel and slamming the horn for some reason. I drove off with as much dignity as I could as the tramp, disappearing in my rear view mirror, shook his head like he’d known all along that that would happen.
I knew then it would be a long day and now with the pump playing up and the goats playing out it was getting longer. There have been only two responses to our adverts (pleas) regarding trying to re-home Chewbacca, the worst of the goats, both from people we suspect of being possible suppliers to the ‘value, frozen beefburger’ market. The goat vet was astonished we even asked if he knew anyone who needed a goat.
“Ha! You must be joking!” He laughed, “Goats are monumental pains in the arse – everyone knows that.”
It has reached the point where we cannot countenance spending any more money on goat security but that if we can just get rid of Chewbacca, the obvious ringleader, then the others will behave and can stay. As I approached the raided orchard, heavy of heart, Toby reappeared. He’d taken himself off when the vet arrived suspecting he was in for a good seeing to no doubt, but he’d returned with a prize.
On close inspection it turned out to be the lower leg of a deer but for one glorious moment I thought Toby, not hitherto known for his intelligence, had solved the escaping goat problem by simply disabling the creature in the same way that a cyclist might remove his front wheel.
“Good boy,” I said, “good boy. Well, it’s an idea old son...” Man I was tired.

 The book is out on now! Buy it here, make it a bestseller and the goat MAY get a reprieve...