There's always one

I knew a man over twenty years ago who accurately described himself as having been a total bastard. Then he got a rare brain disease, went into a lengthy coma, and woke up a truly lovely person. He stopped being a bastard insurance executive and became part time consultant, and part time sheep farmer.

The trouble with sheep, he said, is they're always looking for new and inventive ways to kill themselves. With graphic examples of sheep stuck upside down in ditches with feet in air. And, he said, you can fence 'em in as thoroughly as you like, you'll come back next day and there'll be at least one outside trying to get back in.

Here's one such. To our right, there's a field of well behaved sheep, eating quietly, discussing the weather, playing the odd hand of bridge. To our left is woodland, containing That Sheep. Eating what grass there is (not a lot, but it must have seemed greener before the Great Escape). And talking to Mum.

In the main field, Mum is yelling "what the blankety are you doing out there you little moron?" Or bleats to that effect. In the wood, That Sheep is yelling "yeah Mum, whatever". Now, as you may or may not know, when a sheep turns the volume up to eleven on a bleat, it comes out as a cross between a roar and a belch. And today the hills are alive to the sound of music