We made sausages.
On Sunday morning I ventured to the paddock without the camera. That was a shame as, in the field, I saw something unfamiliar to a city boy. There was a horse, that paint horse, with something resembling the uncut sausage jutting out of him and tapping on his stomach. His mouth was wide open, as if yawning, and his head swinging from side to side. He made a sort of stiffled neighing sound and swayed slightly, seemingly unsteady on his feet. "Crikey! Ejaculated Nigel" I thought, Englishly.
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