… baby sheep. Oh don’t look so shocked, we’re men and women of the world here, and I’m sure we’ve all woken up with the occasional moose airily passing it off as the result of extenuating circumstances*

Years ago, I shared a house with three other student-y blokes, one of which had a year long unbroken record of notching the bedpost with a different girl every month. One Saturday morning he lurched white faced into the kitchen, and wailed that he had found a horse in his bed.**

We mocked him with the complete absence of evidential residue such as nose bags, piles of oats and hoof marks. He silently raised his shirt to show a marching line of indents that did look suspiciously equine.

Our belief systems were further shaken when emerging from his room was a women who had clearly been a horse in a previous life, and only narrowly escaped being one this time around. When she’d finally galloped off, he fell – a broken man – into a chair, and today still has a completely understandable fear of jodhpurs.

Anyway, the point. The lambs are out looking cute enough to eat. Which of course they will be before too long, but let’s instead thing of them as a springy trigger for my favourite season. Light until 8PM already, commuting without anything to warm the ailing knees, stuff exploding from the ground and the promise of a long, hot summer.

Okay the bit about the long hot, summer is aspirational but a man can dream eh? Although nigthmares are my current sleep thoughts of choice. Mainly around a very, very sore knee meeting 100 kilometers of hilly Cotswolds.

H’mm and indeed ARRRGHHH.

* An unstoppable shag fuel of alcohol and testosterone.

** Not a horse’s head. The Staffordshire Mafia couldn’t afford real animals and would instead substitute a nasty looking potato.