Right now there is a large amount of jet-setting and general gadding about happening around the Homestead, but sadly none of it involving any of us.
Yesterday, Miss Jacq Dee (her of the singing fame), departed for far-flung shores (well, Canada to be exact) as part of the New Zealand Secondary Schools Choir. The choir has been invited to guest at the International Choral Kathaumixw and we are all basking in the glow of very-few-degrees-of-separation to such honour and glorious noise. To our friends at Sailors Small Farm, you may catch a hint of kiwi twang if you open your windows wide in early July; to Miss Jacq: we know you’ll knock ’em for six.
Mrs Dee herself boards a silver bird for a very well deserved and overdue jaunt tomorrow, effectively Brentering the land of the Brexit. Although we will miss her (the one person we could laugh along with, over the last couple of months), the promise of toblerone has gone a long way to easing our pain. Have a blast, K, you earned it and then some.
On Sunday, Uncle Steve once again jets homeward after a fortnight’s flying visit to see Grandad settled into his new home at the other end of the Thorrington corridor. Usually visits of such magnitude involve long, dallying meals out and raucous family get-togethers. This one is a little different but it has still been wonderful to catch up with him and his suitcase is chock-full of Homestead love to share around the clan that remained behind.
Even the goats are planning a break away. Steve the Vet visited yesterday to give them the once-over and test them for CAE. If the results come back clear (fingers and hooves crossed), the ladies Leia and Geraldine will be off to the farm for a romantic dalliance with Bachelors One and/or Two, resulting in the patter of tiny hooves around Yuletide. A little late, but not too late according to Sage Steve the Vet.
Here at the Homestead, we’re happy to keep the home fires burning and soldier on but be warned, you travellers: all the while you are basking in summer, those visions of toblerone are boogie-ing fit to bust in the Homestead collective conscious.