As I scoffed toast this morning I saw an impressive
squabble on one of the Star Trek Facebook groups that I follow about some
trivial point in a Star Trek episode from fifty years ago. As the argument went
on it became painfully clear that the more vocal people in the quarrel hadn’t
actually watched much “Star Trek”. Some people just like an argument.
I had some emails. My credit score with credit karma has
gone up by nine points. Even though I’ve halved my working hours and the
pension people haven’t stumped up yet. I have to wonder what that score is
actually scoring.
And I had an email about the dog insurance. It turns out
that the Dog Club has got a specific policy for dog clubs through the Repton
people, so that’s my mind at rest.
Leaving “er indoors TM” with the dogs I
set off on a little Munzee mission round town, then set off down the motorway
to Folkestone. As I drove I listened to Dr Tim Spector on Desert
Island Discs; a favourite radio program of mine. Like all the other castaways
on that show Dr Spector has had a fascinating life, but has a frankly dreadful
taste in music.
I got to Folkestone where “Daddy’s Little Angel TM”
was tearing her hair out. She was ready to go, but being too small to know any
different, “Darcie Waa Waa TM” was just being difficult. And “Stormageddon
– Bringer of Destruction TM” was still in bed.
We eventually got ourselves organized and set off back up the
motorway. It wasn’t long before we were in the car park of Buttercups goat sanctuary putting on our wellies.
We had an excellent hour or so at the place. You can walk in and
pet the goats. They are very friendly. You can feed them too (with bags of
goat food bought at the place). Feeding is done from the other side of a
fence as they can get rather forceful and demanding. It is suggested that you
don’t feed the goats wearing the purple collars, but I never did find out why.
I did notice that when feeding, the ones with the red collars were rather pushy
and it was quite tricky making sure that a goat without a red collar got some
food.
“Darcie
Waa Waa TM” seemed rather put out that the goats didn’t sit and
offer a paw before getting fed. I suppose I can see her point; the dogs at home
have to do that, so why shouldn’t the goats?
We did chuckle when having an ice-cream at the sanctuary’s
shop. An epically fat woman who had just gone arse-over-tit in the mud (and
was caked in mud) was having a real spiteful rant at her mate who had just
come out of the shop with two bags of goat food. What good was goat food to
her? She couldn’t eat it. And she wasn’t joking, either.
After an hour or so we washed our hands and wandered back
to the car. If ever you are in the Maidstone area and at a loose end I can’t
recommend the goat sanctuary highly enough.
I took
a few photos whilst we were there.
We returned to Folkestone for McDinner. Some little brat
was running round the place screaming. I just kept quiet and watched. After ten
minutes and various pointed comments from pretty much everyone else in the
place, the brat’s mother (rather pathetically) asked him to sit down.
The brat stopped, looked mother in the eye, said “No” and carried on
running.
Perhaps a crack on the arse might have shown the brat the
error of its ways?
I took “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” and
her tribe home, then came home myself. I had planned to take the dogs out, but “er indoors TM” had already
taken them on a little adventure of their own, so I had a cuppa and a
much-needed few minutes rest.
“er indoors TM” boiled up pie and
chips which we scoffed whilst watching more episodes of “Lego Masters: New
Zealand”. Again fast forwarding through the adverts reduced an hour’s
recording to forty minutes.
Who still watches adverts in this day and age?
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