Thursday: Blog Day. I’m full of commitment, resolve, enthusiasm…and it’s written on The List; that’s got to lead to action, surely.

All big talk aside, this weeks offering is an extension of last week’s impatiently awaited plans; but only a hint because we don’t want to jinx anything. Suffice to say, there’s big things happening in the goat paddock.

Glorious plans that have required the purchase of a new goat shed (in which Marilyn can be spotted sunning herself) and the relocation of Goatopia (under which Leia is snoozing) five or so metres eastward. We needed to get them out of the way of the fencing contractor because…oh, the excitement is close to unbearable but we’re not spilling the beans. Not yet.

Equally thrilling, and something we can freely share with you all without fear of inviting hex, is the news our girl, Sandra, has recently returned from a visit with King Rupert of Brooklands. Initially, we had intended to send our youngest goatgirl off in the company of herd matriarch, Marilyn, but (some may say selfishly) the Homestead was still enjoying a spot of Marilyn milk in their coffee of an evening (sometimes accompanied with a hearty slice of Homestead feta on cracker) too much to prematurely stop milking.

Like most stories of this kind, there were worried tears at departure, happy tears at reunion (these may or may not have been shed by the goat), and the experience has led to our littlest goat paddock lady – her of the white hair tiara, shaggy coat, and folded ear tips ala Mary Tyler Moore’s flip – experiencing growth both physical and psychological.

The girl who was always last to sample the food bowl and first to feel the wrath of Marilyn’s horns (smudged grey by her unbridled belief that the hay feeder must be physically encouraged to give up its riches) is now running with the herd and holding her own. Impending motherhood truly suits her.

Hopefully soon, well before the Homestead resounds to the patter of tiny hooves, we can share what is actually happening at the end of the goat paddock. But until then, to quote kiwi treasure David Hartnell, our lips are sealed.