This little pig went to market.
And this little pig stayed home.
These little pigs look like content.
But this little pig is virtually unrecognisable:
I admit to a penchant for proscuitto, however, seeing the raw material puts me off just a teensy bit.
Yes, that is mould…
but, cin cin, a bit of red wine and Roberto’s your uncle. One surely cancels the other somehow.
We stood around the table under a tree, the horses on which we had just trekked through the nearby hills munching in their stables, a friendly white pony tethered to a tree next to us. Vino all round.
Laughter. A sharp knife slicing samples of the wares. Bargaining. Language translations. Deal sealed – a nice chunk to be collected down the valley. (It was mouldy yet proved delicious. The pick-up was accompanied by a celebratory wine, hard cheese and homemade pastries.)
The little white pony was ridden out to bring the cows in.
Home-made hobbles meant this one was not jumping over anything, let alone the moon.
Those graceful, defined veins make her a sculpture…or a body-builder.
Sloosh, sloosh of milk into a plastic bucket.
It would almost be worth shaving one’s head for the sensation. Try it now. Place your head against a cow’s flank. Feel the warmth seep into your crown. If you’re bald or shaven, I expect you’ll love the rub of short hair against your pate. Perhaps you’ll feel the blood pumping through her body. I wonder what you’ll hear.
Yet here her head appears to be made of felt stretched over plasticine.
As if she were just a puppet character in a nursery rhyme show. Or a blog post.