While The Crofter has his feet on the mantelpiece with Gemmima stroking his brow and whispering sweet nothings into his ear as they watch Euroviosion song contest for the seventh time, Dad Crofter is moving feed from the Pimpmobile [now with recharged battery] to the place where the feed is put.
Oh, I'm loving this snap. Very JR don't you think? Anyone who wasn't in the know would think the kind Crofter has placed the junk there just for me. He hadn't, he was too busy in the Tooth Factory for that.
Yes, ahhh. He's ok. Had triple man-flu / double Pneumonia [aka a cold] for the last few days but he is pulling through you'll be pleased to hear.
Found enough time and energy to pose for a snap for me though. I mean, I didn't ask him to pose he just does - sort of unconsciously. Just in case his fiancée looks in here perhaps!
I know there's been a break. My nose started running, a cough racked my lungs so I took to my bed - which was just dandy as my dearest Eve was away. And I didn't want to give my snivels to the sheeps anyway. Mr Crofter already had double man-flue so there were no worries on that part.
The other calflette - whose name escapes me on account of my ageing self, was looking expecting me to play whilst Mum lurked behind. I didn't play. I didn't feel like to be honest.
On the Isle of Lewis off the west coast of mainland Scotland lies a croft inhabited by an English off-comer. His Mum and Dad live nearby and help him run the croft. This is a photographic record of their lives as it unfolds.