Once upon a time there were three little pigs...

A couple of summers ago we spent a few days babysitting some pigs. I admit to being smitten and have been dreaming of fattening up my own little porker ever since. Call it a quest for home grown chorizo.

So with help and encouragement from good friends, combined with a sense of purpose that doubtless has something to do with turning fifty... the fairy-tale begins!

Having worked through a snowstorm to get the pig's pen ready, collection day was thankfully sunny.... but still unseasonally fresh, so there was only one way to stoke up before collecting the three unwitting piglets. 

Keeping an eye on her litter from beneath her floppy ears, mum, "Squeak" is every bit the classic Gloucester Old Spot sow.

Father answers to "Freddie" and is a hairy, "should be" ginger Tamworth but is happy enough in his own skin to feel no compulsion to dust himself down for visitors. 

And little Joan will be sharing a pen with piggy friends Peppa and Imogen.

Joan, as in Joan of Arc... pigs sleep in an arc and the original Joan was burnt at the stake. Er yes, it’s a bleak future!

On a more nostalgic note, Joan was very popular name among my mother’s contemporaries. There’s just something about the firm flesh of a pig’s hambone which tapers to a dainty trotter that conjurs a childhood picture of many a middle-aged ‘Aunty Joan’ nipped at the hips by a skirt that no longer fits as well as it used to,

(with apologies to all the Joan's I know)!

Pig portraits coming soon of course!