These fat babies are everywhere.
We weren't intending to wean until early July, but I'm thinking they may have to come home sooner.
They could be as big as their mamas by then.
Yesterday's trip involved our old Acco truck, a beast with which I share a love-hate relationship, emphasis on the hate. Her gearbox is a treasure trove of mysteries I'm yet to fathom.
My whole trip to town was spent pondering how I would cope if the traffic lights perched on the first hill into town were red. Of course it was red, and I performed a particularly nasty version of a handbrake hill-start. I'm hopeful the driver of the small Festiva behind me has since recovered.
I managed to score nearly every red light from the northern reaches of town right through the other side. And the old Acco can chug from first to fourth, given enough time and some cussing.
With a few small hills, something akin to the Great Dividing Range, separating the neighbour's yards from ours, the drive through town was a Sunday drive through a secluded country lane by comparison. Through a combination of double-clutching, triple-cursing and single-minded teeth-grinding we made it. Twice. Two loads of cattle never looked happier coming off a truck and down a ramp.
And by the time I made it home nearing dark, collecting children from neighbours and trying to ease the tension in between my shoulder-blades, I believe the old Acco and I just may have kick-started a beautiful relationship.