Killing the Fatted Calf

I did offer to head up the back garden and slaughter the legendary biblical fatted beast this morning, but Mrs The Millbrooker didn't think it was a worthwhile expedition.

This is probably because, to the best of my knowledge, we don't actually have a calf at all. Fatted or otherwise.

We do have a pair of intellectually challenged boys who spend much of their time in the back garden . . .

. . .but "intellectually challenged" and "fattened" are two very different things. I remain to be convinced that they're calves either, no matter what cunning disguises they might try.

But, of course, my wittering on about a fatted calf is just a metaphorical whimsy which  leads me to the fact that Jah Cousteau is returning to Millbrook for an, as yet, indeterminate sentence.

The prodigal wanderer has finished the current bout of attempting to leave the country indefinitely and will be again taking up residence at Millbrooker Towers until the escape committee allows him another break for the fence.

As I write, we're awaiting a text or something similar to say he's approaching Trerulefoot with his step-old-dear (who is giving him a lift en-route to further west), at which point Mrs the Millbrooker and I will collect him. Photos of this momentous event will follow, dear reader, have no fear.

In the meantime allow me to remind you of what he used to look like.