Dances with non-wolves

It is, perhaps, one of the less trickier questions to consider in life... should one ever go outside in one's slippers?

I recently had occasion to ponder upon this when I needed to step just outside the front door to fetch stuff indoors from the car... where's the harm? A short stretch of concrete path was all I had to negotiate, what could possibly go wrong? After mulling the matter for several microseconds, the mission was given the green light.

As I exited the door, my attention was instantly drawn to an Openreach engineer to my immediate right, who was busy lifting the access cover to a cable joint at the boundary of the property. But no sooner had I fleetingly registered this fact and wondered whether there were implications for my uninterrupted use of broadband, when a sound heralded an even more momentous scene to my left.

I turned to stare in amazement as a flock of several dozen sheep advanced up the road, making a break from who knows where. Several things occurred to me at this point:

1. a certain nervousness for unfenced crocuses, snowdrops and aconites (see a previous post);

2. the thought that very soon the flock would clatter by the cottage, heading straight for the main A964 road and possible annihilation;

3. the sound of a dimly-registered yet shrill voice of a lady calling from afar, "Please can you stop them!";

4. but mainly, the sound in my head screaming, "Oh no, my poor slippers!"

It never leaves you... the training.

Even decades later.

Cuts in at a moment's notice, like some autonomic call to arms.

Whenever danger threatens, it is summoned up from the depths of ones's psyche of its own volition, heedless to the danger, simply intent on a successful outcome.

Therefore, I was only vaguely aware that I was stepping out into the road, arms spread wide, with my eyes fixed upon the nearest sheep in the vanguard, whilst shouting "Ah-b-ah-t... t-ah-n!" in as sergeant-majorly voice as I could muster.

Uncannily, and I suspect to the surprise of all participants, this had the desired response, and I was able to usher the flock back the way it had come, the soldierly bearing of my actions somewhat diluted by the fact that I was gingerly tiptoeing my way through a minefield of very fresh sheep droppings.

Perhaps, one day, my actions will see a suitable commendation with the awarding of a DSO (Distinguished Shepherding Order) and b-a-a-a.