I finally have made it to what they say is going to be my new homes. After another long journey of three hours in a white tin can towed by she who cannot reverse a horse trailer (inspires confidence doesn't it) we pull in and stop.
The front ramp is lowered and out I charge - mum would say bellowing I would disagree I was merely braying at a very loud volume and with feeling. I feel a talent show coming on you know....
Anyway, there I was, strange place and up the hill I could see two very strange fat sausages that they call donkeys in the UK - you would get four of me to one of them. I mean they have tummies which wobble when they hee haw. Mum says that is extremely rude of me but when you are the Kate Moss of the donkey world you can say what you like - and sorry is not part of the vocabulary...
I trundle up the hill to where these two foreign mokes are standing and have good squeal and swishy tail when the brown one, Ferguson, tries to be nice to be me... sorry where I come from that usually ends up with another mouth to feed (remember Cazaux).... I give poor wee Fergus short shrift and my view on tiny donkies with foreign accents. He looks very crestfallen.
His spotty friend, Aimee, has a go at us girls together. Nope, I'm not falling for that one either. No bitching in the ladies for me. I am an independent girl.
We take positions at strategic bits in the yard, guarding haynets. It is very much a case of donkeys at dawn and take no prisoners. I have the height advantage, but they are on home ground and know where things go. It's going to be a long night.
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