Despite the LARGE earplugs sleep has been denied me again. And I’m not good when I haven’t had any sleep, as The Husband who is sitting in the bottom of the garden far far away from me will testify to.
For some reason it seems to be the season of setting fire to things in the middle of the night. I am reliably told that it’s a legit form of clearing the land for agriculture, but have yet to figure out why they can’t do it in the daytime. Anyway, someone lit one of these things real near by. So at 1am I think I can hear rain, because of this loud spitting noise. Impossible (and I love how you can say that with surety here!). So I get up to investigate and discover a large blaze. It continues until about 7am.
Throughout the night the fire is joined first of all by cows. Can I just wonder out loud, who first said that cows go ‘Moo’? They don’t. Bloody things go ‘Myrrh’ deep down in their chests. It’s not a sweet little delicate ‘Moo’ at all.
Then the cockerels wake up. The full moon has rolled around again, and so they start yodelling at what they think is dawn. The wild ginger tom that lives in the coffee bushes (mmm, kids’ storybook character there…) decides he won’t be left out of the chorus, so he starts wailing. It’s rounded off by another hymn-singer out there somewhere.
I’m off to raid the Medical Kit. I’m sure my sister-in-law must have put some heavy-duty sleeping pills in there...