Impossibly cute

Look who moved in just down the road!

This gorgeous little crew lives just outside our neighbourhood; they have a beautifully uncomplicated daily ritual, which starts with them up by the green and white barn (standing about the doorway, or lined up in a row staring through the bars of the side fence waiting for the breakfast-bringer), then playing about in the larger field - which is when you can visit them and pat the lovely soft noses through the fence - and ends with them back in the barn in the dusky light; we think they have soft little hay nests, and curl up with a good book and a mug of cocoa.

Our favourite is the stumpy baby, who is even sweeter than the rest, but we love them all... they have become part of our morning and evening spotting rituals; on our way to and from work, we look out for the same things, sometimes with the same commentary. It reminds me of being a child and going to my grandparents' house; my family will remember such gems as 'look at the little cubby' (correct response: 'I did already'), and 'that's where the children played'; there was also the chant 'look at the coloured wiiiindows, and the blue one is cracked', which, after the owners did some repairs, had to change to the ludicrous 'look at the coloured wiiiindows, and the blue one is-not cracked!'

Our spottings are all animals - the mini-donkeys; some even stumpier and shaggier ponies who live in a tiny bit of forest by the side of the road, and even some llamas, one of whom has ridiculously fluffy legs. There may be photos later; in the meantime use your imagination...

Piggen Wiggen

In the late summer last year, we were driving home one evening and, stopped at the lights going into our neighbourhood, I was looking idly about me. Suddenly -

"I see a pig!" I said to Dave, half jokingly, and we both tried to get a closer look in the half-light of dusk. Concluding I'd made a mistake, and seen nothing more than a dog, we went home and I didn't think about it any further.

...Until the next evening, when there he was again, quite unmistakably; whiffling about in the grass and undergrowth right by the side of the road, cars a few metres away.

We went around the block and tried to get a closer look, but by then someone else had seen him and parked nearby; the car didn't bother him but the person getting out of the car scared him and he scampered off into the undergrowth.

And so it went for at least a week; about dusk, he'd come out of the trees and rootle about for a bit; and every attempt we made to get a photo of him was foiled by people or darkness or both.

Finally, we decided to ambush him; we waited, camera at the ready, in the nearby school parking lot at the time we were used to seeing him, and waited... and waited... and just as we were about to give up, out he came.

And it was lucky we did that, as we never saw him again after that day. But even now, we look wistfully at that corner when we pass; it's much more interesting to have a Piggen Wiggen in the neighbourhood than a bare mound of gravel.