Hello, I’m Rubí donkey and this is my Rubí Tuesday blogue
It’s the summer heat time again and everyone is flopped. When I say everyone, I just mean the equines. The Peasant has been hiding in the shady pergola, busy on a new secret project. It all went very quiet apart from the occasional “Ouch!” and “Damn!” as the Peasant proved his complete lack of needlework skills.
Yes, you heard me correctly: needlework. Perhaps the Peasant – having failed to join Saint Clare in ascending to any lofty spiritual heights – has now lowered his ambitions and is instead inspired by her needlework craft? While lacking either her patience or her nimble fingers. Or indeed a thimble.
The peasant eventually descended the ladder from the pergola to the donkey field wearing the product of his many hours sequestered in the pergola swearing and sewing. A donkey mask-face.
“What is this new donkey descending the ladder?” squawked Aitana, running away startled and shaking herself down as the chickens do when they want to shake loose some itchy feathers. I wonder if Aitana’s chicken-staring is having unwanted side-effects?
I reassured her. “It is just the Peasant wearing a donkey mask-face. Not everything that looks like a donkey is actually a donkey.” She looked surprised at this idea, silly horse! Taking a closer look she was visibly relieved to see it was just the Peasant. Morris also drew near and tried to pull the mask-face off the Peasant but just earned himself a light smack on the nose.
Why the donkey mask-face? A couple of years ago the Peasant was sent a souvenir gift of woollen donkey socks from his friend Barbara who was visiting the Donkey Sanctuary in Sidmouth. I don’t know why people who already have donkeys need to visit a donkey sanctuary. My theory is they want to check their fat donkeys are normal. When they’ve seen several hundred fat donkeys eating all day, and they’ve bought their souvenir fat donkey coffee mug and fat donkey tea towel in the fat donkey sanctuary shop, they go home reassured that their own fat donkeys are normal. But I digress.
So, one of the Peasant’s socks disappeared in the washing machine, as socks mysteriously do. The job of a washing machine technician is to find all the odd socks that have magically disappeared into your washing machine. They are the Tommy Coopers of the household appliance technician world. They tap the machine with their magic wands and say, “Abracadabra: give up your socks!” but nothing happens. Another failed sock trick. So the Peasant decided not to call out a washing machine technician but instead to make a mask-face out of the remaining donkey sock.
Morris said, “What’s odd is not the sock but the Peasant. He gained a reputation as a master of sockpuppets but now struggles to make something out of half a sock, while stabbing himself in the thumb with the needle.”
Matilde asked, “What happens if the other sock turns up?” She was looking unusually interested in tackling the day’s conversational enigma, from which she usually keeps aloof.
That idea was quickly dismissed by Morris: “It won’t turn up. Odd socks end up in the Bermuda Triangle or that well-known secret aircraft hangar where they faked the moon landing and where David Icke meets up with extra-terrestrial lizards who run the planet. They discuss tactics over a cup of tea and then the alien lizards zoom off in a flying saucer full of odd socks.”
I reproached him: “Morris, you’ve been looking at conspiracy websites again, haven’t you? I told you they are bad for your mental health.”
He adopted his righteous donkey expression and muttered something on the lines of “Alien lizard conspiracies are good enough for the President of the United States, so where’s the harm?”
“On the other hand…” said Matilde, but no other hand seemed forthcoming.
“On the other hand what Matilde?”
“Oh yes… On the other hand, the Peasant’s friend Barbara could just buy him a replacement donkey sock the next time she visits Sidmouth. It’s not as if the sanctuary needs to make sure socks are in pairs like they do with donkeys for adoption, is it? Socks aren’t social animals.”
“Nor are alien lizards!” Exclaimed Morris, his eyes wide. This key discovery would soon be circulating on social media around the global conspirasphere. “So the Peasant is an alien sock lizard!”
Now even the cicadas have gone silent. So, that’s my Rubí Tuesday blogue for this week. I make no apology for it. This is all the wisdom we can offer from here in the curious summer of 2020, on just another hot day in the virus crisis… Or the Brexit disaster… Or the Chinese climate apocalypse. Whatever.
Aitana lowers her head near the chicken pen and begins a new session of chicken staring. I think I may join her. Maybe she is onto something? We need to keep ahead of the game.
Blog editor’s note:
Apologies to The Donkey Sanctuary, Sidmouth for Rubí donkey’s remarks about fat donkeys. In fairness we need to point out: other donkey sizes are available. For readers’ information, the sanctuary is closed during the pandemoniums. Find further information here: thedonkeysanctuary.org.uk
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