We used to have geese in the field next to the terrace but they had to go. In the summer the guests who came at the weekend would sit on the low wall and whilst they were chatting, long grey necks slinked over the plates and stole their salad. When challenged they would hiss and flap and aim their necks with the righteous indignation of thieves. We ate the geese and now there is a donkey.
The donkey doesn’t do anything but look – standing still a few meters off.
I’m down from London for the weekend. When it is time to go I can’t find my new red shirt. Retracing my steps I remember the hot lunch on the terrace and my shirt lying on the wall. Glancing into the field I see a snatch of red fabric. As I explore I find more and more shreds of my new red shirt – none of them bigger than a handkerchief and none in the same location. The donkey is still standing in the field looking.