his is what I did last Wednesday morning: I sat on an upturned bucket inside a sheep-milking shed, holding a ram lamb’s head and front legs while a vet called Adrian was slicing the lamb’s testicles off. I wasn’t looking. The ram lamb was my beloved pet, Reginald, the son of my beloved ewe, Elizabeth Jane. I suspected a conspiracy between Adrian and Miles the sheep farmer. I had nagged and nagged
