Beer, Wine, Coffee and the Goat House in Weymouth

The evening ends with a pint of Golden Champion, the Badger ale described as "it's like sitting by an open window and in streams the garden", my current favourite bottled beer.

As the garden streams in I contemplate the highlight of the day, my Great Uncle's story about the house of goats. More of that in a moment.

The evening began with a glass of Rioja, the last glass from yesterday's bottle. I am a Rioja man through and through. Every now and then I find someone who doesn't like Rioja and I just don't get that. But then again, even my wine book isn't interested in the stuff. Neither is my Granddad, he likes his wine Italian.

The middle drink was a gloopy coffee, and my favourite of the three. Freshly ground, brewed to perfection in my trusty 1-cup cafetiere, the supreme luxury item. I love it gloopy. You know, when there are dark swirls that get thicker and more syrupy the deeper you go.

But anyway, the goat house.

My Great Uncle told me a story from years ago when he worked for BT. In fact, he only every worked from BT, which at the time was (so I am told) the only telecom company.

An engineer, he had been called out to a house in Weymouth. The lady at the door was "a bit, you know, out there", he said.

The house was full of goats and the problem was simple, the goats had chewed through the telephone wire.

In the front room were 15 nanny goats. In the back room was a billy goat with huge horns. The family lived upstairs.

My Great Uncle emphasised the point, the lady was "not arty-farty, just, you know, out there, shawls and things".

After fixing the wire he peeked out at the back garden. It was desolate. The goats had eaten everything.

The family was happy, the goats seemed happy, so he didn't report anything. Just a "problem with the wiring", and that was that.