There are sheep outside my window on the supermarket roof. They’re plump, thickly wooled. They plod about in a way that is delicate and airborne. I step carefully across to the roof. The sheep are very friendly. I hold out my hands for them to lick, as I look at the sky. The sky is full of sheep: they funnel up from the horizon like little grey and white clouds. Here, on the supermarket roof, they mill around me going “baaaaa” complacently.
I climb back through the window. In the dining room my girlfriend is reading the paper. “They all seem to be streaming up from the southwest,” I tell her, pouring myself a cup of tea. She turns the page. “That’s good sheep country,” she says.