Blog: May 2023

Continued 2/3.


Early rise this morning, we spent three hours gardening. After ripping out several rows of stinging nettles I began to mow the front garden, tearing up masses of dock leaf plants to find a nest. I came within inches of a poor partridge sitting on her eggs. Charlie motioned to stop everything and pull back, lucky for us after five minutes the partridge had returned to incubate her nest.

Quince tree, Charlie told me to be careful of this when cutting the hedge, now I can see why.
Turning over the soil to bed a line of potatoes.

The other thing we had planned was to weed the vegetable patch, to the rear of the farmhouse. Breaking the soil we noticed the presence of worms, this is a good sign, but also strange flies appeared, we had no idea what they were so left them be. I forked out large clumps of nettles whilst Charlie turned over the soil. We managed to plant one row of potatoes before retiring for a coffee.


When you realise you are a targeted individual you must always remember, that your malignant oppressors are pure filth, they'll never repent to resolve the atrocities they commit against you. They'll reverse everything you have been and mean, seen as unseen, and decimate that what your parents have been, endeavouring to cultivate the essence of who you are into another; deemed, more worthy of your soul that you, threaded your family, as you are stranded from your people.

When they decimate every comfort you have, they slap you in the face, with an opened clench fist bearing false giving. When the light fades from your eyes, as your gaze lowers, as bones rattle upon freezing cold paving slabs; know that in a world of hate, your ancestors are there, know that in another world you are cared for, that your life means everything to them there because you are here; and thus, undistracted, endeavour to find the place where you have been despised from being; without being terrorised from seeing.

When you awaken into a world where nobody is your friend, stigmatised, alone, terrorised from self; that visions of warmth, consolation, mutual exchange become so vague, obscured, and so distant, as you become alienated, to believe these feelings and emotions of humanity we depend on as human beings, fade from one lapse in insignificant reason. When nowhere becomes almost everywhere, and everything becomes almost nothing; figure you're a place between disinheritance and dissolution, to know they want you never to exist again.

“Funny, but it seems I always wind up here with you
Nice to know somebody loves me
Funny, but it seems that it's the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me (the one who loves me)
What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out (talk it out)
We know what it's all about
Hangin' around (hangin' around)
Nothin' to do but frown
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down”.

Because spite driven cultural Marxists, celebrate every day as your replacement's birthday, rebirthed into your linage, your dispossessed inherent worth, detached and mutilated then presented as the ultimate egalitarian gift. And these enablers comfort in the knowledge, when you're cold and alone, displaced and lost as a nobody's own, that you'll never be able to take consolement from the warmth within the family home that they'll return to. Your moments pass by beyond grasp, surpassed and dissolved, as if you never mattered at all.

And as criminal to scene of a crime, they do return to gloat at the length of inflicted despairity, from whom the culturally estranged appease, maligned, alienated and desperate to be liked as they are unliked, mutilated unrecognisable from legacy of their ancestral likeness; erased from hope, detached from prayer, forsaken themselves godless as they are plundered as disembodiment unto an envy, a fear, edged by loathing to purge ethnicity from ethnic homeland. As targeted individuals, subjected to extreme prejudices, we are being erased.

The poorly lamb, sick from eating too much wheat, was found dead this morning; made Charlie promise me he won't feed lambs wheat again.


Risen at 6:30am to load and transport lambs and ewes to Longtown market. The A7 was empty between Hawick and Langholm, other than one speeding black mini car. We arrived early, I watched Charlie unload three ewes and lambs then show his transportation book.

Unloading sheep begins early but most turn up minutes before the end. Here an Armstrong transport lorry delivers a flock of sheep, home of the Armstrong clan is only a few miles up the road at wee Gilnockie tower.
They put sawdust on the floors of these gated pens, so the sheep don't slip.
Outside of the auction hall is painted in garish blue, inside was pictured last month.
Charlie claimed he wasn't emotional, but wanted to visit the sheep that he'd looked after, for almost three generations. Today we said goodbye to monster sheep but this is Ewes and Lambs day, nothing here, will be sold on for slaughter.
In the opposite pen, were Bluefaced Leicester's, originally from the North East of England. A man complimented us on our Zwartble breed called these sheep Leicester Camels.

The women in the cafe were unsociable, second visits are always sour, and I tasted that in the breakfast they served us. Returning to the farmhouse Charlie stopped at Ewes water to use the public facilities whilst I had took a foot dip into a shallow length of river.

South view of Ewes Water.
Calming shallow water with a clear reflection.
North view of Ewes Water.

We were extremely low on petrol once returned to the farmhouse. As the sheep were fed and watered, we found a lamb alone, unsteady on her feet. Charlie asserted the lamb had eaten too much wheat, and was drunk, the diarrhoea from its stomach attempting to unblock an acuminated restriction. Charlie rang the market and found we had made for the sale of the sheep, the number given over the phone was what he had predicted.

Beautiful vendant fields, exist here in the borders.
Panackelty, a propper Northern casserole, this is what's left in the pan, picture taken today (17th).

After a stroll around Hawick high street, purchasing two dresses and a practice chanter, we returned to my flat. I cooked Charlie a favourite family casserole named Panackelty, with the exact same ingredients my mother used when I was hungry at the dinner table as a wee child. My mother was 1 of 12 children; I have over thirty cousins around the North East of England although none of them talk or want to know me!


Returned at midnight to my flat, disturbed to have been listening via CCTV to the disturbed dog barking for over ten minutes at the farmhouse. We have the building cover 360 degrees, with motion detection and A.I tracking survelience. Night vision can track movement in the woodland, five-hundred yards away, the camera also provides the farmhouse with a front garden / porch light. I am not so sure about patchy WIFI , if I would purchase again I'd have the cameras capable of being wired and networked through LAN .

Another sunny morning, I had a peaceful nights sleep, Charlie slept well also but overslept and thus was late for work. He's a hard worker, his rough hands are full of calluses; he is a tired man, but by no means broken. I have two philosphy books waiting to be read on my table, they are Critque of Judgement and Critque of Pure Reason, both are written by Emmanuel Kant. I've also been learning the "tin whistle" I purchased in Berrick several weeks ago.

Whilst searching for written music online I've discovered "the session" music website on the internet helpful. From two decades ago I can roughly remember how to play "Harvest Home, Drowsy Maggie, Irish Rover, Rakes of Marlow and the Leaving of Liverpool", how awesome is that! Reminisant of those years wandering, as a hermit, I quiver in hindsight, wether this daughting view is retrospective; I ponder if this is psychosomatic of being systematically cast out, seeing my history evaporate before my eyes; boiled and devoured by monsters.


Summer is here, the morning sunshine has a warm, vibrant presence.

Today we continued to muck out the farmyard; with the help of a friend, she didn't enjoy the obnoxious smell of rotting silage mixed with sheep poo but made a second attempt at getting stuck into the smelly but necessary job, that Charlie, who did the entire job, alone last year states a marathon, not a sprint.

Friend helping us with mucking out
Friend helping us with mucking out
A few layers of muck removed
A few layers of muck removed.

Deciding to go look for two missing lambs I walked up the lane, whilst Charlie navigated his ascent upwards through the paddock. I walked through a wooden gate, and across pasture to find two lambs cuddled up together.

Two lambs cuddled together
Two lambs cuddled together.

We came across a yellow flower named Viola lutea subsp. calaminaria before walking into a mushroom circle.

Mushroom ring
Mushroom ring.
Green pasture, good condition for grazing.
Green pasture, good condition for grazing.

Charlie paused for ages searching for two lost lambs, he has enabled these sheep to grow, taking care of them generation after generation.

Charlie searching for two lost lambs
Charlie searching for two lost lambs.

At dusk we drove the car to the top of the glen, parked in a passing place, and enjoyed the sunset.


We cooked a Sunday roast dinner before returning our friend to her flat in Hawick, we watched, from the car, to see she arrived inside safely. Remained awake an hour inside my flat after Charlie retired to bed, focusing a last waking hour upon updating this blog.


I've lived to 49 years of age and beyond. But I'll tell you, the shadow monster enjoys snatching birthdays, because fear, loathing and envy born from darkness relishes snuffing out our candles. And as hostages they return, forsaking everything, brainwashed from rationality with Stockholm syndrome, as psychological hostages they'll protect and care for this oppressive captor; probably until they're reborn, mutilated unrecognisable from their homogenous ancestral spirit, inherent worth plundered into an inhumane abyss of haplessness.

Charlie asked me where I would like to be , what I wanted to do during my birthday . I decided to visit a small length of coastline, of the Scottish Borders. Along the way we stopped via a small town named Duns, and enjoyed a sandwich and coffee, whilst sat outside a café, surrounded by a show of rally cars.

After being overtaken by numerous speeding cars driving erratically, our first port of call, Eyemouth.

Eyemouth bay
Eyemouth bay.

Charlie took his shoes and socks off, then complained about the coldness of the water. We walked across the shoreline to the harbour, whilst Charlie paused I took a chance to take his picture; he's usually OK if I photograph him from a distance.

Charlie with his shoes and socks off, walking the shoreline
Shoes and socks off, dipping feet, ankles and sometimes thighs in salty sea water, a British tradition!
three story house surrounded by stone walled defences
This house I believed to be the dwelling of the harbour master but Charlie kept repeating "pirates".
Charlie with his shoes and socks off, walking the shoreline
Lobster pots.
Slippery Willie Spears, what a catch, pointing to Eyemouth's Masonic hall.
Slippery Willie Spears, holding a catch, pointing towards Eyemouth's Masonic hall.

We walked back to the car, via the harbour, stopping at an amusement arcade to play a shooting game. The attendant came to compliment what a good shot I was, awesome. We then decided to drive to a small fishing village of Saint Abbs.

Outside Saint Abbs visitors center
Outside Saint Abbs visitor's centre.
Saint Abbs, this was the first port of call into Scotland for evangelising Roman Christians.
Saint Abbs, this was the first port of call into Scotland for evangelising Roman Christians.
Monastics errected an abbey in Saint Abbs, I don't believe they were very welcome in Pictish Alba.
Monastics errected an abbey in Saint Abbs, I don't believe they were very welcome in Pictish Alba.
Saint Abbs
Saint Abbs, located by the habour was a busy cafe serving Cullen Skink soup.
Saint Abbs harbour
Walking along Saint Abbs harbour.
Visitors centre is visible
Signle story visitor centre is visible two houses from the left of this picture.

Charlie required the use of a toilet, a side effect of his medication, so we drove down to Coldingham bay.

Saint Abbs harbour
Coldingham beach.
Coldingham beach from the sea.
Coldingham beach from the sea.
The deep golden sand of this beach was clean.
The deep golden sand of this beach was clean.
Coldingham beach rock pools, not that I dealeve into them.
Coldingham beach rock pools, not that I delve into them.

The demeaning emptiness of life has a strange, eery feel, as if perched upon the edge of oblivion. Devalued of self worth, rationality desperately grasping at a shard of broken perspective, sliced sore, etched with a serrated loneliness. Reminded me of the film "Quiet Earth" centered on a character named Zac Hobson who awakens to find himself alone in the world. But Charlie, arousing me from procrastination, said the seaside was not a Scottish thing.

Coffee and cake at the beach cafe cost us thirteen pounds twenty pence. I enjoyed jam sponge, a dessert I had not tasted since school time, some thirty four years ago. People working in the cafe spoke about a strange visit from people revering projections of an "African Child", Praxis, a replacement projection, forked threaded through dispositions of despair, I thought, as a center of attention, being revered for every obscuring, cause and reaction, disturbingly cringe worthy and throughly evil incessant, ho hum.

We drove south, past Eyemouth and onto Burnmouth; the last Scottish Borders seaside town before England. Now, this place was extremelly quiet, but this isolated space was not stagnated.

Burnmouth Harbour
Burnmouth Harbour.
Burnmouth Harbour
Burnmouth Harbour.

What you see and don't see obscured behind angles and unfocused from elaborate detail, from a panaromic photograph.

Burnmouth Harbour
Burnmouth Harbour.
Burnmouth Harbour.
Burnmouth, half mile of rocky, gravel coastline.
Leaving Burnmouth, we both noticed straight lines drawn along the rock.

Our journey back to Hawick, retracing our way involved passing through previous towns such as Duns, here I noticed a stone carving, involving the Red Hand scrolled with the word "Industy".

A squared Red Handed school of "Industry", feed my lambs.
distant view of hume castle
We noticed Hume Castle, we visited this folly several weeks ago.

We entered Kelso in search of purchasing a cooked birthday meal, walking through the market square we found an eating establishment and ordered a plentiful plate of fish and chips. I recite memories of a friendly Kelso, yet still isolated despondent and enduring longevity of being unearthed alone. I often wondered what kind of hatred perpetuates grievous contempt for such a duration; the hatred for our people is multi-generational, vengeance recital conditioned through epigenetics, mudcidic tort upon their bitter twisted strands of defunct DNA.


We visited our friend, who gave me a birthday card, some cashmere gloves, and had also had cooked a huge birthday cake. After Charlie had a cat nap drove to Bonchester Bridge but the establishment there was crammed packed with travelling / camping bikers. We ended the evening in Denholm, played some pool and endured dismal pop music songs, videos played through a widescreen TV, remote control operated by the pub landlord.

I can't remember being given a birthday cake such as this, wow.

I was with Charlie, and another friend later, happy that I was not alone on this birthday to reminisce of a lonely last year, at Dalry and Saltcoats. My birthday meal, a can of 50p lentil soup, and birthday cake, a crumbled blueberry muffin; I considered myself, then, lucky to be eating. However, two friends, hundreds of miles away bought me table drinks in a Wetherspoon pub, paid for remotely via using a mobile phone app. At the pub two lovers, dining, remarked on how lonely I appeared, with a buffet of alcoholic drinks spread before me.


Messages in my mind once I returned to the farmhouse yesterday, through the evening, into the night, and again invading my mind this morning. These messages, always negetive, are environmentally triggered, but I can't fathom how this could be, there has never been any trauma at the farmhouse. Through this disturbance, Charlie woke me this morning, with a bottle of wine and a birthday card, that had been left on his doorstep by a friendly neighbour.

Early birthday card
Early birthday card :)

I find situations of acknowledgement strange, to be remembered for the things I do, valued because I exist, after so many long, long years, dissolved as multicultural fertiliser, perpetually displaced worthless by a deprivation cult, kicking victims senseless as triggered, opportunity mules; forsaken, replaced, resetted over and over again, alienated with demonisations, unto a deprivation mincer revolving most vilest, stomach churning, cultural marxism.

Deafened by the smoke alarms sounding this morning, lighting the farmhouse open fire. I used wax wood chip firelighters, then got over generous with night lights, setting ablaze a wooden board I was using to draw flames through the fuel and up into the chimney. Whoops! I threw the burning board to the side winds, from out of the upstairs, farmhouse side window. Later I visited the neighbour who left the card, he has a something he wishes to sell.

We drove to Galashiels to pick up a replacement pair of reading glasses, so much happier not straining my eyes. We stopped to check our two grass keeps, at the first grass keep a sheep had be eaten, a man slowed in his car to inform us. He seemed bemused, the lamb had its face damages, we believe it could have been either a badger of a fox that killed it. The sheep at the second grass keep are almost recovered from Scold, good news as a lame flock is no good to us.

Eaten alive.
A lamb, eaten alive.

Voices are teering through my mind again, viral messages are making me feel sick. Me and Charlie talked about the farmhouse dog (sam) biting me and how I was reluctant to take him out for a walk now. I said "once bitten" and Charlie replied "twice shy"; I thought, this must be the old saying for Generalised Anxiety. So it's my birthday tomorrow, and we have plans, this will be the first birthday in five years I have not spent alone, tomorrow I'll be forty-nine years old.

I view the public as subhuman, demons, meaning I nolonger view them as human beings, because of inhumane, cold shouldered ignorances, in retrospective of this public only warming to spite driven gratifications. I am really endeavoring to erase any faithful expectations of the public being human because I now know, they are not human anymore; repeatedly fooling myself otherwise is doing my aling mental health no favours.


Yesterday I visited a friend who has settled in Hawick, after coffee we walked the high street to a Wetherspoon pub. At The Bourtree we received a frosty, unfriendly reception, the bar tender snarled as if she resented serving us, even detested our presence. Once we had seated some distance away, we became aware of "the cook" arrived for his shift, then began shouting some obscene words strung together in a mostly unintelligible sentence. We also suffered degenerate projections from unruly people who were not retarded.

The pub quickly filled with clientele who, put bluntly, were horrid; glaring as they inched past us; even when we refused to make eye contact. Spite in their projections, disdain in their voices; felt as though I'd been submerged in evil. Considering nobody in this pub has talked to us before, and there is no reason known to us for people to have a negative view about who or what we are; we found this establishment strange, concerning and unsettling. Perhaps this social stigmatism was because bar staff were waged a meagre nine pounds an hour?

I don't usually go into Hawick other than to visit the supermarket. Either I am coding this website from inside the walled confines of this, my suburb flat, or I am at a remote farmhouse / visiting grass keep tending to sheep in rural areas. For thirteen years, I have been cornered unapproachable by alienating and ostracising contempt of Third-Worldism; a pervasive shunning preventing affirming rapport with people whom I may or may not find relevant. I am not in the public eye, so why am I smothered in judgement by people unknown to me?

Circumstances are different from roaming the wilderness, when I was zombified with trauma and sleep deprivation. A stalk reality penetrating tiredness and sleep deprivation with harshness of elements; chapped and sore by extremities, lingering, bone chilling cold, or relentless burning dusty wind. Unsettled, aggravated, pushed about by triggered anxieties, inducted by targeted stalking activities. Yes my life is different now, validated, sheltered, with two friends that care for life, frequenting and corresponding with me, as human beings.

I can share my life over the internet, because I am not a body snatching cult, manipulating and imprisoning hypernormalised peoples minds with information control.

I've not caught out third-worldist ratchet [storytellers of the wild hunt] demonisers; a twisted, contorted face of socialism, residing in a compartmentalisation corridor edged between duplicy of ostracism and association. Deeming their victims, targeted individuals, unworthy of socialism; planting common purpose seeds of discordance that germinate within every functionity you'd expect not to be unduly deliberating neo-liberal concepts of alienation, blighting public service professionalism (heath care, academia et al); denouncing humans undeserving of humanity.

In the afternoon Charlie returned from work, helped our friend transport a new, used computer, delivered from my flat. Via her flat we drove past a copse full of wild garlic, the smell from the white flowers was pungent. After being rushed by Martinists at Sainbury's supermarket (for energy drinks "tinman" and skittles "rainbow"; these two Martinist robots were easy to spot, because they had been subjected to misery, and were compartmentalised with trauma) we drove down to Carrick Forest for a drive [to reduce anxiety] in the evening, Charlie directed me to a beautiful waterfall, who said height makes a waterfall anymore significant.


Forgot to dry out Charlie's jeans on the radiator, I have no trousers / jeans to give him, as I only wear dresses. After pausing for some deep thought, I pulled him out some pyjama bottoms, velvet black with gold stars; he wore them but clearly didn't want to be seen in them. I have got five hours to catch up editing my blog today; there are a few pages left to upload before I tidy the remaining code. Once this is complete, I can focus on creating new content. Charlie purchased me some beatuiful lilies yesterday, blooming this morning.

White lilies blooming
White Lilies blooming.

Gypsy Suz departed in her van this morning, she prodded her satellite navigation buttons, so guess she'll not be returning. She came six months ago, parked outside my flat block. I tried to focus in on her face as she was leaving, but the angle of my view was too high to see anything other than her shoulders arms and hands upon her steering wheel. I am beginning to rationalise with my targeted observances, and in this instance I believe myself to be missing contact with characters I met in my past. But nobody knows me, after 13 years; right?

Hippy camper van, covered in transfer stickers
Weathered tyre tramp appeared 2nd May 2023.

When you experience recurrent social rejection from partisan tollerances, what is happening is you are being ignored out of your life by those who would alienate you from your homeland, to transmigrate you, rebirthed into a people previous unknown to you our your ancestors; whilst they make every effort, as replacements, to become as you, without you. What multiculturalism has become unto our people, as we unwittingly host third-worldism migrants that despise our existence, in dispossession, of every inherent worth we possess.

Charlie and me have a bit of a ongoing joke about seeing bright blue cars, since he bid on a bright blue van on ebay. This association chaining could be perceievd, in psychology as a "thought disorder", reminds me of clang associations, only display / visual, not vocal / auditory.

There is so much red and black theming around me at the moment. I looked outside my flat window, to see a black car with a red children's seat in the back, then glanced at a white blonde mother walking her wee child to school, clad in black, both wearing red trainer shoes. They were walking from burn foot, since I arrived in Hawick I have suspected this council estate to be an issue of contention, especially when travelling in Charlie's car to fetch fish and chips from Tony's takeaway. A "colourful life" is so cranky, a misery of no to do, to do.

I tell you, invisible street theatre exists, directed between corridors of compartmentalisation, to covertly shape and mould people's opinions into making decisions they'd otherwise shun as being against their better judgement.

And they'll do a not do, with more no to do's, revering those systematic cultured failures. And they point you out, finger pointing, not dissimilar from the film "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers". And they will associate presenting duplicity, akin to 70s series "The Prisoner", aroused displaced inside an altercate environment, coerced by manipulative informants. Perhaps resisting you'll find yourself receptive to mockery voyeurisms of the "Truman Show", if not hindered by hauntology of repetition, a "Ground hog day" scenario.


Charlie moved our friend into her new flat this morning; it moves me to know we helped her with a difficult situation, that I figure is a detachment of alienation very similar (including symptoms of trauma inflictions that I endured from religious abuse) to what I had previously suffered and endured for years. Then tended to sheep in the afternoon. I am optimistic she'll not drift and substantiate connections here within the Scottish Borders. She left my flat exactly how she found it, other than the kitchen was cleaner!

Huge white sheep stands firm within a green stonewalled field.
Roar of Monster Sheep.

We started the day picking up hurdles, sheers, clippers, wormer, anti-parasite pump and antibacterial aerosol spray at the farmhouse. The jeering sound of hungry ewes and lambs greeted us; notably a huge ewe named "monster sheep", because of her size.

Huge white sheep stands firm within a green stonewalled field.
Roar of Monster Sheep.

It enamoured optimism to see the lambs using their creep, we errected this to make ensure they, from their mother ewes, got enough pellets to eat. I called two missing cade lambs for futher up the paddock, as usually they came running to me but as they grow older they are using sight more than sound.

The farmhouse is such a enamouring place to me, a richness of life, insisting productivity in subsantication of time. The loaded car was nearly completely full, leaving the rear window visible. The weather is warm today, the ground is becoming dusty.

Ewes and lambs penned in, by a tree trunk at the end of a fenced field.
Penned in at the end of the field, now we can treat their bad hooves.

Our plans today were to investigate and treat the scald on the lambs hooves, a common occurrence in early spring time. Arriving at a paddock, five lambs with their mother ewes were penned and checked. Only one lamb, with a temperature located around the hoof was treated with an injection of anti-biotic. Two of the worst lambs were jam jar dipped (we don't have a run at this location) with a mild solution of copper sulphate (bright blue in colour), all were sprayed with Cetrigen, this antibacterial spray dyed the hooves deep purple.

Open the Jam Jar.
Align the hoof.
and then dip.
Opening a cloven hoof
Opening a cloven hoof.
Applying Cetrigen
Applying Cetrigen.

Most of the grass had been eaten on the paddock, so we moved them to an adjacent paddock, with a lovely burn flowing through the paddocks long, dark green grass, fresh salad to them. Charlie had to repair the perimeter fence with hurdles and twine, returning to the car I watched and film him walking over an old wooden foot bridge.

Charlie navigating his way over an ole bridge across a wee burn.

We stopped at of cooperative supermarket to get a light lunch, consisting of two cornish pastys, two bars of chocolate and a packet of jaffa cakes. How can you not like orange juice with breakfast, seems indecisive, a woman the other day told she wanted coffee, changed her mind to tea, then returned to coffee, how can ye be sure, an ole highland terrier inquired.

Leonie seated as a passenger taking a self whilst charlie drives his car.
Me and Charlie driving in his car.

We travelled to the second grass keep, driving pass the first grass keep. All but one of the flock came to us, the remaining sheep was a lamb, struggling upon her legs. Charlie dismissed my assumption that this lamb would be easy to catch, and oh how he was right. We encircled and rounded up parts of the flock three times before she was caught, the poorly lamb went from hobbling to running as if she never had hobbled at all.

roll of grey square mesh before six white sheep waiting to be fed
Roll of mesh, this help catch these sheep significantly.

The Dorset ewe was very agile, her edginess and jolting from us made rounding up the other sheep that much harder. We are concerned at how wild she has become, considering she was very friendly and approachable before she moved to the grass keep. After we rounded her up, Charlie took the opportunity to trim her hoofs.

The dorset ewe had soft hooves so trimming could be done single handed. Both hands were needed as hooves were hard when previously trimmed.

Charlie said there were two options, either we transport the mother ewe with her poorly lamb in the back of the car, returning them to the farmhouse paddock, or we return to the farmhouse paddock, pick up some lambs and then transport the ewe with her poorly lamb back to the farmhouse paddock with the trailer; I chose the second option.

two white lambs await transport, trapped in a run.
One of these lambs is the one that could not walk, can you tell?

In all we made another two trips back and forth to the farmhouse. We had planned to purchase some fast food but arrived too late. Returning to the flat I cooked us sausage and chips, ran Charlie a bath, washed his jeans before falling asleep on the couch; rousing my sleepy head and dragging my tired body to bed at 2am.


Supposed to be at the farmhouse today but at 5:30am felt to run down to get out of my bed; Charlie has taken sheep to the market and then gone to work. Today I was scrolling down my Twitter feed and was surprised to discover an Asian man speaking about subject information contained within the exposure pages of this here website.

This is different, and new, in that this is an Asian man talking about the erasure of white people, in reply to a white male Marxist delivering multicultural trope, via questioning his answers. Evidently immigration into America was supposed to be reserved only for White people, as free men, and not as indentured servants.

It seems that we, as sheeple, have been historically fleeced of our inherent worth, our dreams, as aspirations of our forefathers, plundered into marginalisations, forsaken to a hapless abyss of orchestrated nightmares; cultured from artificial disparities; imported from degenerate continents, projecting a darkness unknown to the historical legacy of our people.

Ultimately these hate filled invaders are demanding us to barely exist, chased down, racially supressed and psychologically terrorised as zombified opertunity mules; crucified worthless and defaced unrecognisable from our heritiage and homeland. Isn't this what our ancestors fought against; to protect our right of succession; from being forked, by devils.