A cold drive in the country, November day, stripped fields, bare trees, wind spitting ice and swirling leaves. Even the thin water of Guelph lake had a grey chop like the sea. Drear, drear.
A surprising number of sheep, all sorts, blackfaces and greywools and the ordinary sort, such woebegon faces. A couple of llamas shivering in among the black skeletons of royal thistle. A herd of highland cattle, the colour of ship-wrecked copper. Their shaggy coats topped by a mop of hair that covers the eyes. Suddenly I think the bull looks like Ringo Star, and laugh aloud.
And
the next minute I'm singing to the music on the radio, I Want To Hold Your Hand.
What a silly world.
