 |  | A further outing included a visit to the Tate Modern. Wow! What a structure!
Approached across the "wobbly bridge", as it is universally called, the brick-built former power station building gets bigger and bigger, nicely counter-pointed by the nearby oak framed Globe Theatre.
During the final 100 yards, across an unadorned, gravelled forecourt, head tilted back, I was gob-smacked! Taking in the awesome scale of the window-less wall, with its towering smoke stack. In my best Fred Dibnah voice, I was muttering "what a blooming lot of bricks" as we passed within.
 | Across the "wobbly bridge" |
And here’s the best bit, exhibited therein is the famous stack of bricks. I could very much appreciate the skill of the artist who managed to sell the Tate another 120 bricks, when they were to eventually be displayed in that environs.
That deal must have been a real piece of work, which in turn led to a further series of acts of brilliance.
Critics are paid hard coin of the realm to tell us peasants how this can be art. They must be incredibly skilled folk. Sadly, their explanations were just a bit to high-brow for me to understand.
There were of course, some interesting, engaging pieces that I was able to appreciate, but about 30% were, with the best will in the world, absolute baloney.*
*I did subsequently cross reference my findings with a Professor of art, my pal Bob, and sure enough much of it is regarded in the trade, as it were, as complete bull.
High point in the Tate Modern? Sorry but it has to be the turbine hall itself, a two million cubic foot void containing the biggest indoor gantry crane in Christendom.
To round up my exposure Alison led me into the square mile for nosh with a former banking colleague, (the dearest canapés in Christendom) followed by a quick gawk at the Ansell Adams exhibition in the Hayworth (Well good, now I want to visit Yosemite)
Home again, home again to more civilised parts.
The stock is all fairly well, living as it does at this end of the summer on the "smell of an oily rag".
Weaning the rest of the lambs is due. (The first draw having been despatched to the customers freezers).
Time fast approaches to put the Daddy sheep in the field with the Mummy sheep, but I have first to secure some un-related Daddy sheep and hopefully sell some of my own (named "Duck", "Dodge" and "Scarper"*, which may involve far more contact with the powers of the state than a simple peasant might desire.
*A couple of N.C.Cheviots, and a very fine little Blackface, of the "Devil's Scotch Sheep" line, all yearlings tidy in mouth and feet, wild as hawks and subject to foggy nights.
It’s a funny thing, I can share grazing on the common with my neighbours, but should I wish to purchase one of their sheep beaurocratic hell breaks loose.
Lots of foggy nights also approach, I suspect.
I am contemplating how to shuffle the cattle, to leave them in the most appropriate winter quarters, without too much sweat. The sawmill is only busy, rather than frantic, which is a pleasant change.
I am so pleased to read that a couple of DEFRA staff have had smacked wrists for fiddling their FMD living expenses, whilst those responsible for the whole, multi-billion pound debacle have slipped away un-noticed. (So they think.)
Reassuring to know the state is right on top of such things.
 | Who wins the "Beaurocrap Award this month? |
Beauro-crap award of the month must go to whoever it was that decreed those businesses awarded some financial assistance last year will now have to pay some of it back as income tax.
I haven’t seen Farmer X for a day or two, which probably indicates he’s up to something!
Stay tuned, or webbed, or whatever it is you have to do .
See you next time, Anton
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It’s a funny thing; I can share grazing on the common with my neighbours, but should I wish to purchase one of their sheep beaurocratic
hell breaks loose. 
