04/06/2026
So last Thursday was Sheep Shearing Day, also known as the annual reminder that my sheep are stronger, heavier, and as stubborn as any woman!
Picture this: blazing heat, creative swearing, and me trying to manoeuvre sheep that weigh more than my hopes and dreams up a ramp to the shearer.
The youngsters — having never had a proper haircut — trotted up like they were off to a spa day. Absolute wee divas.
The older girls though?
Oh no.
These wily old bags took one look at the ramp and said, “Not today, Satan.” Then proceeded to lie down and slide backwards like they were auditioning for the Sheep Winter Olympics.
So there I was, trying to shove a literal mountain of wool uphill, while my lower back whispered, “This is how we die.”
I’d like to report that being stoic and bloody‑minded is all fun and games… until your lower back files an official complaint. To be fair John Penniston took over the shoving at this point, his knees are stronger than mine!
Friday morning my back greeted me with a cheery, “Hello! Remember me?” sort of pain. Charming. I behaved myself all week, moved carefully, acted like a responsible adult — and then Thursday arrived.
I attempted to leap out of bed.
My back said, “Absolutely not.”
I froze like a Victorian lady having a dramatic faint.
Putting on socks? A full comedy sketch. I’m fairly sure the sheep watching through the window were laughing.
With teeth gritted and dignity questionable, I made it downstairs. John took one look and phoned Grant Harkness — recently‑qualified physio and, apparently, the patron saint of people who’ve done something daft to themselves. He even does house calls (remember those?) Grant arrived, poked the offending muscles, worked his magic, and hey presto — I can move again! A bit gingerly, mind you, but at least I’m no longer walking like a malfunctioning robot.
If you’re feeling creaky, I can highly recommend him. Your back will thank you. Mine certainly did.
