#4 All Over, Thanks.

Hark! The rare call of a wild tennis ball.

My hair was out of f'kntrol, up until a few hours ago when I gave Mum the clippers and demanded that she tame my, er, untamed locks. I was making the biblical Samson pre-Diana look like a choir boy after advanced chemotherapy. She wouldn't have looked more distraught if I'd asked her to drive a roofing nail into my spine, and she said, like she always used to say when she cut my hair, "You have the hair that any girl would die to have". That's always been a real confidence booster. The final straw that drove me to this was that the hair was getting inside my ears when I had my headphones on, which gave me the effing esses, and also my shadow from the sun looked like Bono during the Live Aid concert. If I could grow a beard I'd be so into that, it would really set the whole tattoo and shaved head thing off. I'd be seven known and two previously undiscovered types of BMF.

Well, this space was otherwise reserved for a photo of the black-er of Choco's two nipples, but his agent is claiming to sell me grain-fed beef from Argentina but delivering me bird-flu infested chicken wings from China. So now it's filled with poorly thought-out metaphors, and not a tit in sight. I hope you're happy that you've ruined my internet, Choco.

There are lambs bloody everywhere now. We've been tending a poor old ewe whose lamb died during birthing, which has left her all but dead. I've been trying to stand her up, but her legs keep buckling and she goes down on her side and just lies there. The way she was last night, we were pretty sure she would be dead in the morning, especially considering the bitterly cold nights with frosty mornings we've been having. She was still alive this morning, so today I've been going out and rolling her off her side and into a kneeling position, and also took her food and water. Fingers crossed.

Keep on Truckin'.