Diary: March 24

Farmhouse front lawn is covered in snow drops, lambs are being born, this month we'll be purchasing grasskeep, a move to Ancrum also draws closer.

31th

This morning, Charlie woke me with a gift of an Easter egg. Today we sussed that the powered lamb milk power was tainted, we have already seen a vast improvement in their health from opening and feeding them from a fresh bag.

We drove swifty through the Manse.

Towards midday we departed from Woodburn for a day trip to Eyemouth; passing through Earlsdon, Gordon, Greenback, Duns, the journey from Roberton to Eyemouth took about an hour and a half; briefly stopping to pick up a sandwich lunch.

At Eyemouth I saw people in the street who I did not want to see, why I originally went to Eyemouth to get away from; it's such an insult they dwell in places I've been, feels as though I am being erased. They crucify us for history most of us know nothing of; beyond comprehension enables them carte blanche impunity; they enjoy subjecting us to suffering too much.

30th

Cooked Charlie a fruit cake yesterday, sharing should always be consensual.

Today I am returning to the farmhouse, somebody or something is killing our cade lambs, three have died from swollen stomachs, a forth cade lamb almost died but has been nursed into recovery. Charlie is suspicious these lambs are being murdered by ignorance; bottle fed microwaved cows milk by a trespasser; I write "trespasser" because these cade lambs are situated on private residential property, public right of access does not apply. The first thing to do is check the CCTV, we also plan to relocate cade lambs from their current shelter.

I run through the CCTV timeline and found no "vistors" between dates 30th - 27th of March, however there is another fivve days to check. I've seen the dead cade lamb, shes grotequely swollen, so we suspect this to be poison. The cade lamb that survice is swollen on her rear left rear side and front right side; she also has very loose stools. Its a sunny afternoon today; on the way to Woodburn we stopped at Sainsburys for essentials but was followed inside and ridiculed inane by a cultural Marxist ex-employee, our a beligerent moral entrepreneur.

Our other lambs are OK.

Only the Herdwick ewe left to lamb, were expecting her to lamb this / next week.

A murder of crows at Woodburn.

Frogs procreating in the farmhouse pond.

We look after their welfare, and they shout at us as if they were monsters; the flock is being transported to grass keep soon.

This murderous ewe crushed her lamb; she will be sold soon, her brother was the unruly tup we sold at St Boswells.

Moi with our new wheelbarrow, Charlie took the picture.

Smaller birds are frequenting the farmhouse more often.

Charlie purchased a new wheelbarrow, only baby pink colour was available, ho-hum. The farmhouse pond has been very busy with frogs and toads mating, spawn has filled the pond and if you look closely you can see the tadpoles developing At around 5:20pm something spooked a mother ewe from the polytunnel, she was bleating at the cade lamb shed. I dashed outside to see if I could find our visitor, but found nothing; this is similar to the film "Signs"; must check over head for an alien spaceship, the threat is so spooky it's a wee bit whacky.

This is the other tup, these are two tups we will be using late this year.

Other cade lambs (segregated from mother ewes and their lambs) are bloating up, losing their appetite, Charlie has administered shots of antibiotic to five remaining cade lambs; we are observing them every couple of hours. The cade lamb that survived began to bloat out again, but a small amount of black tea delivered from a syringe seems to have taken her stomach swelling down. Today she left her cage, I carried her to the paddock, and she played with two tups and one ewe lamb before returning her to the warmth of her heat lamp.

29th

Half asleep today, editing pages on my blog, tomorrow is the start of a new month (April), so I am tidying up content on this month's diary whilst watching forensic psychology crime documentaries on YouTube. I've had a few days away from the farm, and nights sleeping quiet from Charlie's horrific snoring. I feel as though I am recovering some sleep. Furthermore, I have been rewarded so much being in his company, and I am proud of him in view of his commitment to push through with his endeavours. Charlie isn't a problem for anybody, doesn't revolve tit-for-tat inclusion for exclusion, knows political correctness is bunk. Knowing that, I know the political correct agenda is to inflict inconsolable disparities upon our ethnicity. Our oppressors arrived into our country from ethnonationalist countries, they are homogenous and ethnocentric, yet partisan tolerant condemn us for recognising ourselves. There is no doubt in my mind that we, as White British people, are experiencing a pathocracy; with our ethnicity condemned as mortal sin, we are being ethnically cleansed from our homeland.

“Virtute Tutus - by Virtue Safe”.

My persecutors will decree that I'm the only "racist" being ethnically cleansed (as a disease) from my ancestral homeland, without disclosing their universalist worldwide viewpoint. We are being demolished by post-structuralism, and oppressors arrive to claim they are being oppressed whilst begrudgingly carpet bagging the pieces of our broken lives, as if we should have never existed at all. The problem is our tolerance, we believe that people entering our homeland will respect us with mutuality but all they do is alienate us with disparity, envious of our virtues and seeking possession, they are intolerant of us living as anything other than death towards each other. They demand we share yet alienate us hapless, returning to gloat at lifeless disparities imposed on us, feeling as though we haven't suffered enough. We have never defaced an ethnic groups history into our own ethnicity, nor demanded they remove themselves from their cultural identity. This is explained by Dr. Gregory H. Stanton in his The Ten Stages of Genocide, I estimate we are currently at Stage 9 Genocide: Extermination.

28th

White Renault diesel van 2012 reg: SG12AGM pulled up outside my flat block then sped off exactly midnight; several minutes later Charlie reported observing the van along Hawick high street, turning off towards Newcastleton; he also noticed how erratic the van was driving. If you don't present yourself to their "forever open door" [Revelation 3:8] establishing "connections" they deliver refusenik closed door "connections" dissociated with punishment programming trauma mind control. Inclusiveness means systematically tearing up peoples lives as disembodiments of failure eternal. The unspoken objective is for projections of egalitarianism, socialism and universalism to have total control over the destiny of people.

“The production of souls is more important than the production of tanks”.

This is moral entrepreneurs whipping up moral panic, chasing down targeted "folk devils". Folk devils are gifted people, vanguards, maybe spiritual in religion, anybody possessing inherent worth is chased down, intercepted and interloped. We were in Newcastleton just the other night, keywords strung together such as "see you later" seem to trigger igniting these events. Moral utopian frenzies incur when uncarrismatic moral entrepreneurs lose their captive mentality grip on Milieu control, thus the control group forms alternative or opposing consensus distancing from the moral entrepreneur's official "moral panic" narrative. Cognitive dissonance is the psychopathy footprint of this "hearts and minds" war.

“Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn't have in your home.”.

A repressive and partisan tolerant world is constructed to allow control and exploitation of peoples beliefs. A conceptual reality formulated by opinions and values, constructed by social engineers and delivered by the mainstream media; perhaps the media i.e. radio and television has always been the "forever open door". Moral panic is nothing new to the church, witch hunts beginning in the fourteenth century lasted almost four hundred years; instilling a "divide and conquer paranoia" upon "social altercation" that was either quelled, sustained or ignited by the church. The church would not have ceased these witch hunts if it were not for royal decree. Note, in 1682 King Louis XIV of France prohibited further witchcraft trials.

“The social psychologists of the future will have a number of classes of school children, on whom they will try different methods of producing an unshakable conviction that snow is black. Various results will soon be arrived at. First, that the influence of home is obstructive. Second, that not much can be done unless indoctrination begins before the age of ten. Third, that verses set to music and repeatedly intoned are very effective. Fourth, that the opinion that snow is white must be held to show a morbid taste for eccentricity. But I anticipate. It is for future scientists to make these maxims precise and discover exactly how much it costs per head to make children believe that snow is black, and how much less it would cost to make them believe it is dark gray. When the technique has been perfected, every government that has been in charge of education for a generation will be able to control its subjects securely without the need of armies or policemen.”

It would not be irrational to fathom a universalist, egalitarian religious movement, cloaked under the guise of an apostolate would choose to inflict subjected folk devils to appalling increments of suffering, enabled by pluralism ignited pathocracy to advance an agenda of "need to know" trauma bonded diversity inclusion via moral entrepreneurs socially conditioning Marxist concepts of alienation i.e. Critical Race Theory, and yet to be enacted Critical Religious Theory. Suffering is inflicted upon the vulnerable, ostracised folk devil by instilling despondence delivered by sleep deprivation, slapped inconsolable into mistrust by false charity; manifesting a psychological derealisation bondage voiding hunger, thirst.

“Make no mistake about it: we intend to keep bashing the dead white males, and the live ones, and the females too, until the social construct known as "the white race" is destroyed—not "deconstructed" but destroyed”.

Once the zombified folk devil is depersonalised, disabling reflection beyond recognition, a broken mind [and yet to be disturbed] is then reanimated and steered with trauma conditioned triggers. There, egalitarian directives are abstracted into "colourful" muralisms and sported by designated "people of colour" upon apparel brazened insignias of combatant insurgency. Psychosomatic triggering through a lens of hypervigilance is not restricted to apparel, seemingly inert objects such as pavement, roadside rubbish are also used as generalised anxiety "omens", either crippling, motivating or realigning the "nobody zoned" folk devils apprehensive, "zeroed" projections. Reanimation efforts terminate at 10pm.

“Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.”.

The "game play" mousetrap muralism I endured subjected as a folk devil were "Obey", "Tap out", "LA Raiders", "NY aka New York Yankees" and "Chicago Bulls"; roadside litter, allocated as markers included flattened energy drink tins of "Red Bull", McDonald's "13" logo, "Space Invaders" crisp packets. I witnessed cans being intentionally flattened underneath car tyres, and litter repeatedly thrown into my oncoming direction. The modus operandi of these assaults is indirect, as if to throw a tennis ball against a wall, to hit indirectly through rebound. So far, I've been able to unravel one muralism, namely the Chicago Bulls logo. If the logo is viewed upside down, the back masked abstract is visualised before consciousness.

I discovered knowledge of this "apostolate" to be encoded into universal timeline and arranged by numbers, inclusive of birth dates. Considering this I researched how this could be aligned to me. I found that I shared the same birthday with Marxist Rev Jim Jones, the Jownstown "Rainbow Father" mass murderer. Another birthday is Chicago Bulls player and cross dresser Denis Rodman, he connects, as an ex-boyfriend to eighties pop star Maddona who sung a devotional song to Martin dePorress named "Like a Prayer". Rodman a friend of dictator Kim Jong-Un is a visitor to the hermit kingdom of North Korea; their National emblem includes a paint brush: a dystopian nation obsessed with anti-Western Muralism.

Revealed is an unhappy Tin Man, or Robot, reading an opened book placed upon a triple Latin cross. The colours Parisian red and black match the lampposts embossed with "Jesus the Beggar", Saint Martin in the fields cloaked vision of a naked Jesus. If we present a picture of Martin dePorress (revered by Dominicans as an egalitarian patron saint of race mixed people), beside the Chicago Bulls logo, we see the logo has been drawn from Martin dePorress's broom and animal picture. The triple Latin cross is carved onto a standing stone located on Isle Martin, a Summer Isle near to Ullapool located in the furthest reaches of North West Scotland. Probably as far away from France as a landed Scotsman could be.

In the port town of Ullapool is the Lodge St Martin No 1217 there is also a Nordic style cafe named Cult, inside the front cafe window a sign displaying the message "Join the Cult". In nearby village of Achiltibuie, there is a hydoponicum, growing fresh fruit and vegetables all year round, protected from severity of weather. These instances are familiarised in "Alpha" state consciousness by the film "the wiccaman". Here, the folk devil is a Christian policeman, dispatched to a remote Summer isle to investigate the disappearance of a missing child. A crossdressing, moral entrepreneur villain named Lord Summerisle steers the policeman through folklores, predestinating him as a sacrificial regeneration offering unto his orchard.

During the original and the remake, the policeman is represented as "King for a day" [Sun King sacrificed to universal regeneration] and determined to be "without authority" by preoccupying his jurisdiction with cat and mouse tom foolery.

The film was remade with a different twist. Again a policeman is lured with his daughter by his estranged wife, but this enactment to a remote, matriarchal community, a ruthless sisterhood obsessed with beekeeping. The communities dumbed down [zombified] men (barely able to talk) are used only for reproduction / operating basic menial tasks. Toward the film's ending the villain, designated as "Queen bee", with her face painted with blue and white dualism, sacrifices the policeman after placing his head into a derealisation torment basket raging with "busy mind" bees. The story ends with the sisterhood targeting another estranged male holidaymaker victim with socialite seduction from inside a drinking bar.

Displaced vagrant upon the streets of Westminster, London, I was time stalked by men appearing to be from African origin. They came, wherever I'd try and hide at 23 and 45 minutes past every hour for an entire year; this incurred an estimated 17,000 interceptions. I complained to the police homeless liaison officer, they instructed I gather and present evidence, initiating taking pictures of these stalkers mobile phones in my possession were stolen. I thought maybe I was hallucinating, but the pictures proved that wrong, the men were there, psychotic illusions are come and go transient. It became impossible to gather information, surrounded by a grey cognitive mist, functional processes dismantling as a house of cards.

Towards the end of this prolific stalking I was taken on a trip via a homeless charity to the Royal Observatory, the site of the Greenwich meridian line; below Greenwich park I visited Queen's House. The entrance was through a door that became a "one way" tunnel, glancing behind I became aware that the shrinking view outside became a dot. Further inside the house is the Great Hall, told to be a perfect cube. After the timed stalking had abated, a charade of themed stalking began that appeared to circulate around and about transient people wearing red scarves. I suffered horrific trauma upon the streets of Westminster, during a rainy night in Bayswater, bones chilled by cold were kick broken in half by an enraged African.

I became psychosomatic phobic of African ethnicity after being traumatised from disgust by several African men on Boris bikes, offloading mouthfuls of happy slapping spit onto my tired face as I attempted to sleep on a bench by ITV towers located on Southwark's South bank. Moral entrepreneurs tooled with recriminations exploited these involuntary reactions by stigmatising me as racist; hampered by this invoking derealisation there was little else I could do but walk through this darkness. A diagnosis of Emotional Borderline Personality Disorder was exploited as heartlessness, historically wrought from being unable to develop, as a child, emotional response from a despairing paranoid / negative schizophrenic mother.

Desecrations were mostly inflicted indirectly, and arrived as attackers defecating in places where I slept rough outside. Within a rotunda, I slept underneath a hedge near Smithfield market; waking to find my head covered in excrement and surrounded by green bottle flies. Waiting hours for a toilet to open whilst glaring commuters passed by dislodged me from the dignity of self, after washing I never felt the same way about myself again. Ritual abuses involving spring water became a regular occurrence; inducting states of aquaphobia; many years later, I still find placing myself naked underneath a shower difficult. During this time I had no recourse to state benefits, so survived meagre soup and cheese sandwich handouts.

Descent of mental health became steep; upon Hampstead heath police found me asleep, hyperthermic, uncovered and buried in snow. I was taken to Highgate mental health centre, and given an admission onto an acute ward for three months, then released homeless during a warmer season of spring. Between years 2013 and 2015 ritual abuses intensified, incurring more hospital admissions, seventy-four detainments / admissions in two years. I arrived with police at Middlesex hospital, bound by intense anxiety, too nervous to be seated and unable to speak. On this ward, I locked myself into the shower, pulled out a blade and slash deep into my numb forearms; awaiting upon darkness bleeding from me, to run clear.

Picking up rattling bones from depthless cold, tapping and knocking upon the impartiality of Portland stone, I pushed apathy away and stepped out of the nobody zone; but exceeding expectations, I discovered that I had been nobody zoned. In Bournemouth, I was picked up by the roadside and taken to St Ann's Hospital near the coastal town of Poole. Detained on a locked down acute ward I was forcefully injected with anti-psychotics; with the help of an advocate I took the doctor, and the hospital (seeking for a six-month detainment) to a mental health tribunal and won an immediate discharge. This did not abate the fake reports from phone calls deceptively alleging me to be hanging off bridges and walking along motorways.

There was no place I was chased down and terrorised than in my then home country of North-west Leicestershire. Whilst visiting my elderly mother, I was stalked by a two-thousand member Facebook spotting page; I was chased down and provoked into anger for an entertaining photograph. Police said it was one of the strangest investigation they'd done, tracking an IP address to a page a man created, he was so handicapped they were surprised he could use a computer. Approached by a nurse who'd read my blog posts about trauma, she had witnessed me being abused, in Loughborough thirty-two times in one afternoon; she suggested moving with her, renting a small terrace house, located in Forest Fields, Nottingham.

Almost traumatised to death, my body began shutting down, I struggled with severe bouts of narcolepsy. I'd wake up, flashback, panic, then fall back into a deep sleep, this lasted for weeks whilst my friend was followed everywhere around Nottingham. She got diagnosed with a brain tumour, didn't tell anybody, travelled to Brighton, booked into a hotel, enjoyed a night out with friends, then killed herself. A housing worker who had been trying to resettle me in Nottingham also died, puzzling was nothing was found on his desk mentioning my case. My friend thought and stated I was being religiously discriminated against, tried unsuccessfully for months to get me help, when she died I was detained into Highbury Hospital.

Discharged homeless I walked on foot to Derby, there I slept rough on the streets, and in part at the derelict Clockwork building. In trust, I handed clothes to Pudley day centre; they were returned wet and stained blue, the day centre closed, I was left to wear these ruined clothes in sub-zero temperatures. In an estate agent doorway near the cathedral, men poured chemicals over me, later that day the doorway was foam cleaned. I was detained by police, spending over twenty hours in a police cell alone, without food or drink. Eventually, a doctor entered the cell, and demanded I'd be released after he discovered my head covered in blood from headbutting the cell walls and door. He gave me diazepam before I was released.

I then made an effort to be rehoused in Sheffield and was temporarily housed in a city centre shoebox flat along West Street; here hypervigilance tormented my mind, as men pissed next to my window, their women screamed drunkeness nightly. The same charades played out daily, claustrophobic I ventured on a long walk, towards Castleton. Dressed only in a linen strap dress, as snow fell onto icy ground, I walked bare food along Sheffield's windswept moors. As Sheffield disappeared from view a yellow a black helicopter appeared, circled then landed fifty yards away. A policeman in a flight suit approached, he offered Kendal mint cake, after a sip of hot tea and conversation he left me to continue my walking journey.

Arriving at Winatts pass I collapsed on the ground, an ambulance came and transported me to Stockport hospital where I was discharged a few hours later. This was to be one of many isolated walks, in the remotest areas of the UK, to find peace of mind from endless charades that overwhelmed my mind into near catatonic despondence. Saint Mary's police station was not the only police station I was abused and deprived of my rights; I was also abused whilst detained inside custody suites of Aylesbury and Melksham police stations. At Melksham I was punched at the floor, stripped naked and exposed to cell CCTV, later taken to Bath A&E to have my swollen wrists X-rayed, then transferred to Green Lane Hospital, Devizes.

At Aylesbury I was detained and taken to the police station, I was dragged into a cell by six police men, held in a stress position, two police rested knees on my shoulders, another two on my legs, one at my head whilst the other placed pressure upon my chest via levering my arms, bound together with handcuffs. An officer stated that I "stunk of shit and piss" whilst I drifted in and out of consciousness. I surfaced from darkness to find the police in a state of panic, claiming I had stopped breathing, they then transferred me to Stoke Mandevil 136 unit, where I was held for almost sixty hours until psychiatric evaluation was made available. I was released homeless to endure stalking charades, yet more traumatised and vulnerable.

Locked down on acute wards, I don't remember when or where the abuses began or finished. At Highgate, a Jamaican female was lambasted by African care support workers with "remember who enslaved you" from associating with me; protesting, she was held down and forcefully injected. At Tooting hospital, a male nurse forcefully removes my pendant, then intentionally stamped on it with his shoe. Inside Crawley mental health unit, my SD card was stolen out of my phone when in possession of nurses. In Reading hospital, a Filipino care support worker asked me to show my breasts. At Basingstoke two patients pretended I'd attacked them, forcefully injected with haloperidol I was transferred to Southampton PICU.

Thousands of people intentionally overloaded my mind whilst I was displaced vulnerable on the streets, they were revered by a deprivation cult as egalitarian heroes for voided my worth into depthless selflessness. Their moral entrepreneurs from spreading moral panic returned to warm homes with loving and supportive families whilst I glared into restaurant windows, trying to rationalise genuine friendship and companionship as something that was real, or might one day become real for me. The paragraphs above are a drop in an ocean of abuses I suffered. Those who dismiss these abuses as deserving have sacrificed their care for the children of Ammon to Moloch, abstracted onto the Wiccaman folklore costumes.

27th

The word "Racism" isn't placed anywhere inside the bible; because the whole world is racist; a social isolation cycle of racists ostracising other racists because a belief in racism is racist. Proponents of this nonsense chase their serpent tales as if nothing mattered beyond this inane cultural Marxist lexicon; a worn, reprobate sudo-synthesis of self-assembling insanity.

Yesterday I received my renewed membership card from the British Democrats. I am enjoying knowing this political party is securing more and more seats across the country; together we'll rescue our nation, our civilisation from nihilist post-structuralism oblivion. Putting into place measures to ensure this evil and malignant decrepitude never again rises from hell.

One of the greatest forms of bullying and perhaps the most significant absurdity is to scapegoat, blame one lone individual for perceived "inequalities" of an entire race of "people".

Hello folk devil, and moral entrepreneurs of cultural Marxism.

26th

Auditory hallucinations last night, this morning condemning for raising my hands over my head when undressing for bed, how silly; who'd tribulate that, Moloch? I believe this derives from being smashed up on the streets of London, when a suited man approaching said "always keep your arms and hands down, down"; yet more weirdness. These are the messages you receive when chased down to reap rewards from your life, subjected to bizarre folklores by belligerent moral entrepreneurs to chased down, trauma condition and cast out folk devil's as demons.

Bertrand Russell wrote about this pathocracy (full blown-pathocracy is known as a totalitarian state and characterised by a government turned against its own people) stating:

"When the technique has been perfected, every government that has been in charge of education for a generation will be able to control its subjects securely without the need of armies or policemen". Control means persecute, meaning to punish, if no police are involved, there is no trial, so we can call this state sanctioned terror to establish multi-generational trauma programming mind control; this is how they perceive the future ideal of Socialism; terrorising the masses into unconditional compliance".

Early rise this morning, from my flat in Hawick to the farmhouse, I fed the cade lambs whilst Charlie rounded up three ewes and two lambs into a trailer for transport to Longtown. Offloading we enjoyed a cooked breakfast at the auction café; my heart saddened to see a woman eating on her own. I glared attempting to approach her until people began to notice, freeze a lot with social anxiety these days and I detest it. A class of primary school children were seated in the auction hall, bemused were they to see sheep leap through the pen gate.

Charlie found our sheep and entered the auction; the ewes were unusually angry, maybe as if they knew they were being sold. They fetched £80 each, Charlie claimed his cash from the auction office, we fetched a second cup of coffee before leaving Longtown. Over the Scottish border we stopped at Langholm and popped into a hardware shop to purchase a mop and bucket; deep cleaning my month long vacant flat, empty whilst I have been lambing. Charlie has returned to the farmhouse to unwrap a haylage bale into a near emptied ringfeeder.

Returning Charlie suggested to go for a evening drink, chosing to drive to Newcastleton, on arrival I ordered a pint of Guinness whilst Charlie chose beer. The pub cooks, serves food at weekends so whilst Scotland were televised loosing to Northern Ireland at football, we departed along the nowhere road toward Hawick. Returning to my flat I cooked a bland serving of fish and chips in my new stainless steel deep fat fryer; the old, irreversablly sticky fryer, I'd happily thrown to the dustbin outside, a seemingly impossiblity to clean properly.

25th

Caught Charlie smoking in the cade lamb shed, he's been having a sneaky cigarette for months; its not the smoking, but the telling of lies that bothered me. A relationship is founded on truth and built by trust, every time he lit up a smoke he decieved me. I'd rather he'd of said he wasn't quitting, instead of manipulating my belief in him. I told him I can't make him feel worst than he is making himself feel, I am not helping him stop again, he has to do quit smoking to resolve himself if not for his health, that endeavor is now with his own self initative.

Arrived at my flat, washing machine is knackered in that my clothes are more dirty [from flow back] after washing cycle than they went in; I am assuming neighbour's ABDL nappies are to blame for a flat block drain blockage.

The murky water rising from the sink is rancid and has been making me unwell. Today my partisan tollerant neighbour was taken away to hospital, two ambulances and six paramedics rushed up the stairwell into her flat. During the afternoon I've stuffed my face with cake whilst editing my Franfurt School exposure.

After shopping I returned to the farmhouse with Charlie and fed the cade lambs their nine bottles of milk. To my surpised Charlie returned from the paddock requesting me to look on the driveway, there I found Loli the cade lamb, with her newborn lamb. She had lambed on the paddock in the pouring rain, but had dropped the lamb into the shelter of the upturned haylage bale. Donna the cade lamb, picture with the new mother ewe lamb is also in lamb, we were not expecting either of these cade lambs to get in lamb. It's been a strange evening.

24th

Last night, I fell asleep about 10pm, too tired to remain awake to care for the wee twin lambs. News came, one died the other survived, it took 2–3 hours for the lamb's temperature to normalise to enable feeding of vital colostrum. I advised Charlie not to remove the other lamb until she became stiff, to know for sure of death before we ejected her out of the farmhouse. Charlie has taken the lamb to her mother ewe, if the lamb is not accepted they'll be eight cade lambs. Sad to observe cade lambs dammed without their mothers ewes love.

Charlie's mother rang today, said she was going to church, because there is nobody to talk to. How can I tell her that the church, corrupted by malignant evil, is the causation of such isolation, and that she is walking into a mind trap. If I consoled myself with Christianity, I'd place a bible on my lap and read, and let no man, nor creature prevail manipulations in-between word from turn of page. Elders are precious so the begrudging childhood of communism defaces and destroys our elders, forlaying us from inhereting our forbearers legacy.

Midday Charlie returned to the farmhouse from work, then drove me to Chapel hill with my bike in the truck. The plan was to ride back to the farmhouse, mostly downhill and take some pictures with my bridge camera. I noted the birds nesting upon the ground, and stopped by a lake we often drive by to get a closer look at the boathouse.

In the afternoon Charlie received a call requesting he go to work, on arrival I was presented a peacock to photograph.

23rd

We visited the Reviver's festival in Hawick, catching the tale end of the procession we walked to the castle mound to observe this re-enactment festival of the Scottish Borders. The festival was white and so felt safe, although one child seemed unhappy with her ancestral heritage being ethnically defaced by an inclusion privileged African, persuing exclusion.

I blanked the commercial market stalls, not for lack of interest; I have 27p in my bank account. Access to the festival was free, on entrance visited historical medical, armoury and spinning stalls. Flag bearers, both English and Scottish soldiers appeared gallant, stood in defiant stance on top of the castle mound; their silhouette backdropped by moody grey sky.

Charlie received a phone call from an employer requesting assistance with a dead calf; so we departed from the festival earlier than planned. Work ethnic, as in commitment, is important, and no more so than in farming as this is an often a potentially dangerous profession. Tomorrow we'll learn about the imposter calf, wondering if this practice is where the term "wolf in sheep's clothing" derives from. In the evening, we rejoined the Revivers Festival in Wilton Lodge Park, awaiting the torch lit procession arriving from Common Haugh.

I have the full procession on film, maybe I'll upload and stream the footage from this website, but possibly speeded up a wee bit. I also recorded the fireworks and the bonfire, and turned my camera on the Scout Band as they finished piping. At the end I was eager to get to the car and return to the farmhouse, seven very hungry lambs were waiting for a bottle-fed. Charlie found twin lambs born in a dark wet corner of the calf creep; claims mother ewe likes them, but they are cold, barely alive; we're warming them underneath a heat lamp.

Charlie can't leave them, one lamb is whining the other lamb is barely breathing, ever so slightly that I am wondering if I am imagining, from wishful thinking, the lamb breathing. Both lambs have not had their colostrum yet, Charlie reckons they have five hours to suckle from their mother ewe; thinks both lambs are premature, they also are having a late start. Leaving the morning revivers festival a hooded man stepped in front of me whilst eating a baguette, Cuthaig enablers do this, maybe there's a decimation house on Newcastleton road. The ageing Zwartble ewe, who had triplet lambs last year, has suffered another prolapse and then broke her waters prematurely; Charlie is struggling trying to rescue her lamb. Now there is only one mother ewe, the Herdwick, left to lamb; how chaotic is this end of the season lambing for us at Woodburn Farm. I've had enough of the day, wanting to go to bed.