I’ve been farming all day so I’m an old hand already. We have to go count the sheep now, and when Hector Fyvie says “You know the difference between a ram and a ewe, right?” I almost scoff, but I’m polite. I say “Sure, Uncle Hec”.
So hundreds of sheep are herded past us in an orderly fashion, not too fast, not too slow. Obviously I have been given the easier job – counting the rams – as there are only a few sheep with horns compared to the many, many ewes.
“How many did you get?” asks Hec, deadpan. “Seventy nine”, I say confidently. “Oh”, he says, looking a bit worried, “There shouldn’t be that many”. Tabs is having a much harder time concealing his mirth and I realise I’ve been had!!
You’re meant to look between their legs! Not on their heads.
these are not ewes
’tis not the horns maketh the man
Oh, the shame! Exposed as a townie-poephol! Got to hand it to Uncle Hec, the master of quiet, understated humour. I still blush when I think of it, but of course he was very gentle on me and gave me a whisky that evening, as always. Just not as stiff a tot as he poured Aunt Stell.
