That's what happens when you are a somewhat aristo in jolly olde. You get to write a weekly column on absolutely nothing. So it was no surprise when a dreadfully boring columnist for an equally boring publication wrote a dreadfully boring piece on what she thought was dreadfully important - her goat.
You see, her goat died last week. And understandably, like with the loss of any house pet, say a cat or a dog or a budgie, our resident writer and her children were upset.
But then, to add insult to injury her equally dreadful journalist husband wrote an equally dreadful piece on his wife's seemingly unusual attachment to the goat.
Which caused her to get unusually upset which in turn led to her equally dreadful article accusing him of being completely unmoved by the sad event. Mind you the cold bastard remained dry-eyed enough to be able to assist the vet with his final duties.
Now Himself who was raised an urbanite has difficulty with the farm-raised Missus' attachment to animals.
"I just don't get it", the bewildered auld sod is believed to have told his mates over a pint or three of lager at the local pub.
Meanwhile his better-dressed half was whingeing to her friends about what a "beastly, ghastly bugger" she had married.
"He's such a ghastly, beastly thing", she wrote in her follow-up column.
Could this be something for the therapist's couch? Sounds like their favorite song: "I'm a little bit country, he's a little bit stiff and cold" has come true.
Looks like this aint about the goat but is a sad reflection of their relationship. A little-passive aggressive something going on there. Some poison-pen problem p'raps. Maybe she's an attention seeking drama queen and he's a cold, unfeeling bastard. Only the goat knows and he aint baa-ing.
Back on the home front guess who's confined to eating crow off a TV-tray in the gun-room while the rest of the clan tucks into the Sunday joint at the dinner table?