Dung thing

I’M trudging.

There’s something ennobling about a good trudge. A tough journey needs to be made, so you just make it. Sometimes it’s a trudge back from Spar where you bought too much, were too tight to buy two plastic bags and now you’ve lost feeling in the fingers of one hand.

This trudge is a proper one, though. I’m walking to and from the car with sacks — okay, one sack at a time — of manure balanced on my shoulder.