I have loved goats since Lucy and Mary the long-eared Anglo Nubians came to live with us in Suffolk in the Nineties. They smelt awful, but indiscriminately ate for Britain, which made them my sort of ladies. For example, we once put the final clue of a treasure hunt inside a small wooden box, wrapped it in paper, tied it up in gingham and attached it to Mary’s collar. As the team arrived at the goat pen for the crucial clue, they watched the end of a ribbon disappearing into Lucy’s mouth; she had devoured the entire package.

I generally have issues achieving a high from yoga. It’s not the spiritual discipline itself, but the immaculate, flexible women who practice daily in coordinated Lycra and never seem to sweat. I find it hard to discover my inner Zen while feeling like an upended tortoise, surrounded by leggy gazelles with their ankles effortlessly in a double bind behind their necks.

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