Blanket nailed across the draught-ridden door,  I huddle inside the shepherd’s dwelling with my dogs and an orphaned duck. Even in bed I wear socks, mittens and a woollen hat.

Why did I choose this meagre, isolated existence on the slopes of Whistlebare?

Each day brings new delights and difficulties: what will serve to soothe the needy duckling while I am out tending the sheep? In the absence of a burly forklift driver, how can I extricate the bull from where he is stuck in a bog?  Should I cajole my morose boss into opening his curtains, embracing the sunlight and donning his market-day apparel, or must I shove him into the sale-ring in his pyjamas?

Finally, grief-stricken after a series of tragedies, and with the flora and fauna of Whistlebare threatened by corporate industries, can I believe there will be another summer when the lark will rise in song?