The roads in Devon and Cornwall are a wee bit thin to pass a sheep, or three.
Thomas and I waited while these bleety little chaps found a passing place with sufficient grass to keep them happy.
Both are easily worried. According to the Telegraph a mild bout of political correctness can prompt a Tory MP to worry
“It is very worrying that this literary masterpiece is being used for such a politically-correct purpose.”
Morning rituals blogged:
As a committed conformist here’s my outstandingly pedestrian morning inspired by all the above entries:
chain-letters… …chain blog-entries… …if I tell you about my morning does that mean it exists? If no-one see’s my mornings (apart from the fluff-balls) does that mean they don’t exist? Should I waffle about a tree falling in a forest or just go to bed? 
