Donkeys

An open day at the donkey sanctuary – never in my whole life would I have said I’d be happy staring at a pack of donkeys or whatever the word is. I’d only just picked up my weekly Telegraph and was looking forward to a cup of coffee and a good long read of writers with a bit of sense. But Monica reminded me she’d promised her new friend Nora we’d go to this open day. Who was I to argue the importance of world events reported with wit and accuracy, so off we went.

I must say I enjoyed it. Nora and Harold live in a converted mill outside the village. They’ve got a couple of hectares down there and a large field where they look after a few donkeys. Nora is somewhat weasel like and Harold has a frightful stammer, but they seem okay. Both northerners, used to run a small printing business somewhere in Lancashire or Yorkshire, all the same really up there. Sold up and came here. Now they’ve got a lot of things on the go, according to Jeff, my source of local information. It’s all down to Nora, who is reputedly in a constant whirl of activity. When she’s not cozying up to her donkeys, she’s running some kind of get together with the local ladies or organising various do-gooding activities. Old Harold stumps along behind, doing what he’s told. Wouldn’t suit me, Monica knows who’s boss, but it takes all sorts to inhabit the earth, as my geography teacher at St Botolphs used to say.

One of the good things was I was able to observe the apparently embezzling Reggie at close quarters. Typical of his type, sports jacket with leather patches on this elbows, quite a large moustache (probably trying to look French), a firm hand shake that could crush a brick and a booming voice. Back in Blighty he’d probably try to sell me a used car. Fortunately I know his type. Came up to me and started to engage in conversation, wanted to know if I was keen on rugby. I am quite a follower of the five nations in fact, but didn’t want to be drawn into something so was suitably evasive. I think he got the message but he still handed me his card, which said he was a “serial entrepreneur” whatever that means. Can see he might be a chap you’d have to dodge round a corner to avoid. Definitely on the make at other people’s expense.

Just before we departed, Monica was bitten by one of the donkeys. I’d told her to be careful, frightful bite they have, but she tried to offer the one called Esmeralda a carrot and it took a bite out of her hand instead. Secretly I was rather pleased because now I’ll be able to show her the same lack of sympathy she showed me when my hand was burnt. Ah, the warp and weft of married life, never fails to bring a smile to my lips….guarded of course.