I was standing at the edge of my neighbour’s field. The gate had just clicked shut behind me. I was late for school pick up and this was a short cut. Two sheep were munching in the nearside corner under a tree, as I strode out diagonally across the long grass. One of the sheep lifted its head and stared at me. Hadn’t anyone told it it was rude to stare especially with a mouthful of food? I’ve done my confrontation experience on the streets of London and know never to make eye contact. I ignored it and carried on another two paces. It didn’t have a knife; I’d nothing to worry about. The lanolin drenched jumper took a step in my direction. My heart rate quickened. Sheep don’t attack. Their legs are too short and they have a weight problem they try and hide under their coat. Sheep are docile creatures that run away when you say boo. I’ve watched episodes of One Man and His Dog.
It quickened its pace in my direction. O…my…god. Sheep aren’t supposed to run fast. They waddle from side to side in a sort of defunct, disco dance way. I stopped in my tracks. The far side gate beckoned me. Come this way to safety, it said. It is too far I answered. The speed in which this beast was moving makes me think that even without my bejewelled flip flops I’m not likely to make it. I turned and retraced my steps. Rather more hurriedly than before. The beast continued to chase me, getting faster as momentum took over. He lowered his head. He could smell the fear permeating from my pores. This must be the edited version from the relocation programmes.
This was what I moved lock, stock and barrel to my rural idyll for. Never once have I seen it mentioned that moving to the country might mean I have to run for my life from a creature, albeit a little dumpier than me, but nevertheless, vertically challenged. I had only one escape – if only I could reach the gate before my foe. I leapt the last metre and caught my ribs on the jutting latch as I prised it open and flung myself through the opening to safety, legs akimbo, screeching profanities. If only the beast had impaled himself on the metal gate, I would feel a sense of justification.
I am a woman who has tamed thirty, obnoxious, eleven year olds and still walked out of the classroom door with hairstyle intact at the end of the day. I am a woman who has leapt out of the path of black cabs as they make a U turn on Piccadilly. I am a woman who would stand tall and take it whilst a motorcyclist put two fingers up because I nearly stepped off the pavement without checking first to see if he was there. I am now the woman who is refusing to be beaten by a larger version of Wallace and Gromit’s Shaun. It should know its place; on a plate smothered in mint sauce alongside roast potatoes. My innate townie side took over. I was a woman who was leaning over the gate shouting ‘shoo, shoo’ whilst waving a stick to no affect, hoping no one could see her.
Shaun’s cousin stood his ground, head down ready to teach me another lesson. He was the rebel of the playground, the bully of the field, the bruise on my ribs. He was also, I heard later, called Bruno and destined for the slaughter house. We will meet again, but this time I will have the upper hand (or leg, or shoulder or shank).
Teresa x
It quickened its pace in my direction. O…my…god. Sheep aren’t supposed to run fast. They waddle from side to side in a sort of defunct, disco dance way. I stopped in my tracks. The far side gate beckoned me. Come this way to safety, it said. It is too far I answered. The speed in which this beast was moving makes me think that even without my bejewelled flip flops I’m not likely to make it. I turned and retraced my steps. Rather more hurriedly than before. The beast continued to chase me, getting faster as momentum took over. He lowered his head. He could smell the fear permeating from my pores. This must be the edited version from the relocation programmes.
This was what I moved lock, stock and barrel to my rural idyll for. Never once have I seen it mentioned that moving to the country might mean I have to run for my life from a creature, albeit a little dumpier than me, but nevertheless, vertically challenged. I had only one escape – if only I could reach the gate before my foe. I leapt the last metre and caught my ribs on the jutting latch as I prised it open and flung myself through the opening to safety, legs akimbo, screeching profanities. If only the beast had impaled himself on the metal gate, I would feel a sense of justification.
I am a woman who has tamed thirty, obnoxious, eleven year olds and still walked out of the classroom door with hairstyle intact at the end of the day. I am a woman who has leapt out of the path of black cabs as they make a U turn on Piccadilly. I am a woman who would stand tall and take it whilst a motorcyclist put two fingers up because I nearly stepped off the pavement without checking first to see if he was there. I am now the woman who is refusing to be beaten by a larger version of Wallace and Gromit’s Shaun. It should know its place; on a plate smothered in mint sauce alongside roast potatoes. My innate townie side took over. I was a woman who was leaning over the gate shouting ‘shoo, shoo’ whilst waving a stick to no affect, hoping no one could see her.
Shaun’s cousin stood his ground, head down ready to teach me another lesson. He was the rebel of the playground, the bully of the field, the bruise on my ribs. He was also, I heard later, called Bruno and destined for the slaughter house. We will meet again, but this time I will have the upper hand (or leg, or shoulder or shank).
Teresa x
