Otterly wonderful
When I was five or six years old, I went out one night to carry a flask of tea to my father, who was in the lambing sheds. It was only a short walk from the house, but I loved the chore because it made me feel like I was helping. Having a specific responsibility was important back then, even though I’d give a great deal to have an hour without any responsibilities now. It was a horrible night, with rain slashing on the tin roof of the shed, and as I pushed the heavy door closed behind me, I was greeted by the smell of warm sheep, hot straw and dusty heat bulbs glowing in the pens.
My father was in the pen that lay furthest from the door, so I
