We are due to have sex this weekend. No, don't get all excited Granny is talking goat not human sex. Ruby, the big beige nanny, the friendly one, has been sharing her pen with Damian Daphne the cockerel, because it's the bantam cockerel's turn to be out and about at the moment and the two can't meet; imagine the mayhem. No, don't. Granny took the Beautiful Wimp down on the land this morning, heard anguished squawkings and found Ruby with her horns down chasing Damian Daphne all over the place; which is fair enough given the way he bullies his hens, now it's his turn to see what it's like being bullied. But obviously it can't continue; what would it do to his only function, his potency? Beloved has moved him elsewhere.
'Change of personality,' said Beloved. 'Means Ruby's coming into season.' 'A bit pre-menstrual?' suggests Granny, which brings a load of mixed information and disdain down on her she could do without, something about oestrus in goats bearing no relation whatever to menstruation in humans, and that making any kind of analogy is deeply inaccurate, not to say unscientific. Bloody scientists, she thinks, not for the first time.
Scientific or not the result in this case is - must be - assuming it is oestrus, assuming kids are wanted - Beloved seems to want them - time for the visit of macho cabrio. Granny and Beloved are off to this evening to visit their friend Aurora and beg the services of her macho cabrio - no, not the one she claims lives in the house, otherwise known as husband; the other one, the billygoat, that lives out the back along with the rest of her large menagerie.
Goat seasons being short the deed will have to be done this weekend; Granny does not intend being present. When it comes to sex she altogether prefers human, and of the participant not the voyeuristic kind.
As for the rest: Christmas is coming. Electric bells have been strung up at the end of her road, a star a little way along the next one. More stars, trees, flowers are appearing up and down the main street. As yet there is no sign of some dramatic installation on the roundabout at the entrance to the town; Granny had been wondering what was to follow on from the windmill, the palm trees, the gross Father Christmas, the man with camel which have flashed from it in previous years. Maybe, the election safely over, the the mayor doesn't see the need to impress anyone this year. What a pity. As for the belen - the crib - always set up in the carpark - the only sign of that so far is a heap of bricks and another of breeze-blocks. While the nativity landscape on the back and side walls has been painted out for some reason. Oy Vay. We shall see.