Special relativity and a wet T shirt.

Jim Webster


It’s wet, seriously wet; chucking it down in other words. I step out of the back door and there is no sign of Sal. She’s lying snug under the cattle trailer she calls home. As I walk across the yard she emerges with carefully simulated enthusiasm to join me looking sheep. At this point it’s merely raining; to be honest it’s not all that bad. As we walk round sheep I just get wet.

Anyway Sal and I get home and it’s time to hitch the quad up and take some feed to the fat lambs. At this point the rain realises that it’s got all this water to get rid of. So the taps are turned on even more as somebody frantically tries to see if they can dump all the water in lord alone knows how many cubic miles of Nimbostratus over me. As I drive down the…

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