The Long And The Short
Little Granddaughter stands on the bars of the gate. Thirteen bullish and uncertain bovines skuffle in front of us. 'Hello cows,' she says, and blows from her nose as they do. One licks her shoe and is reprimanded. It looks at the floor: poor socially awkward bullock. Today this child's confidence in life has caused a collision with the garden table. She remembers to run around it after this, but she runs, undaunted. We sprint round the currant bushes until dizziness knocks her over. Up she gets, panting, covered in grass. 'Again!' Until Grandad picks her up to show her the bullocks in the field opposite. Then it's 'Oh wow. See cows? Come on Grandad. Nam-ma! Where's a doggle? Oh, come on: see cows.' Not all of the words in her barrage are legible: it doesn't matter, because it's enough to get us to the field gate. All the time I have been frowning over spreadsheets and scribbling marketing notes and biting my fing