Sentence The Twohundredandtwentyninth
The Farmer was a ruddy faced man named John Farmer – Farmer Farmer; and was not overjoyed to see the two WPCs approach across his clean and tidy yard, but was enough of a Gentleman Farmer to invite them into his office, offering insincerely fulsome praise of Police Scotland Officers whom, he knew were doing a “wonderful job in difficult times”; when Gertie slid the screen shot of a line of
cows crossing his field at Hillend, below the Ski Slope which dropped from the height of the Eastern-most Pentland Hill, he laughed – a rich baritone, cut short when Isa spoke, her voice as cold as ice: “you told us, sir, that you kept no cows in that field, can you explain this?” and Farmer Farmer had the good grace to blush; “my apologies, I assure you; I don't know what you are working on and when I received the call from your Constable Clutterbuck, she sounds very pretty, indeed you all look very pretty, and she was enquiring if I kept cows in that field, I told the truth – I keep no cows in that field and have not for several years; if my pedantry has caused you any difficulty I am truly sorry – but the fact is I lease that field, in fact all of my land, to The Roslin Institute,” and the omniscient WPC Isa Urquhart suddenly knew what Farmer Farmer was going to say: “Dolly, the Sheep?” she asked; “exactly,” said Farmer Farmer: “or in this case Robbie the Robot!” and Gertie squeaked in confusion: “you mean those are Robot Sheep?” - Farmer Farmer poured three measures of Irn Bru, although he had the look of a three-fisted whisky drinker himself and handed one to each of his visitors; “not sheep, cows; but not strictly cows either – think Billion Dollar Man and you are getting closer: let me explain,” and Isa nodded encouragement; “these are hybrids; a dairy cow is really just a biological machine for turning grass into milk; so these are the next step in combining machine and biology: they are robot milkers (if you will excuse the nominalization) manufactured to resemble Belted Galloways, just because someone at the Institute happens to like Belted Galloways, and they contain a cloned digestive system so that when they chew the cud – or graze on grass, to reduce it to a degree of bathos which sums the entire process up – it is turned into milk, and as they do not sleep, they can do this all day and night long; the staff from the Institute milk them perhaps six times a day, rather than the traditional twice, morning and night; and unlike conventional high production indoor Milking Plants, they look just like cows in a field and this soothes the minds of environmentalists and tree-huggers, if you will forgive my slip there; every day at a time which is programmed into them, they make their way to the Milking Parlour where two pretty Milk Maids are waiting for them; after the last Milking yesterday they were transferred to a different field: because they are eating grass all day and night and have to be rotated regularly to allow the field to recover;” Isa stood: “thank you Farmer Farmer, can you take us to the Milking Parlour, we will need to speak with the Milk Maids
rather urgently, or PDQ if you prefer!” and Gertie leapt to her feet too.
The Farmer was a ruddy faced man named John Farmer – Farmer Farmer; and was not overjoyed to see the two WPCs approach across his clean and tidy yard, but was enough of a Gentleman Farmer to invite them into his office, offering insincerely fulsome praise of Police Scotland Officers whom, he knew were doing a “wonderful job in difficult times”; when Gertie slid the screen shot of a line of
cows crossing his field at Hillend, below the Ski Slope which dropped from the height of the Eastern-most Pentland Hill, he laughed – a rich baritone, cut short when Isa spoke, her voice as cold as ice: “you told us, sir, that you kept no cows in that field, can you explain this?” and Farmer Farmer had the good grace to blush; “my apologies, I assure you; I don't know what you are working on and when I received the call from your Constable Clutterbuck, she sounds very pretty, indeed you all look very pretty, and she was enquiring if I kept cows in that field, I told the truth – I keep no cows in that field and have not for several years; if my pedantry has caused you any difficulty I am truly sorry – but the fact is I lease that field, in fact all of my land, to The Roslin Institute,” and the omniscient WPC Isa Urquhart suddenly knew what Farmer Farmer was going to say: “Dolly, the Sheep?” she asked; “exactly,” said Farmer Farmer: “or in this case Robbie the Robot!” and Gertie squeaked in confusion: “you mean those are Robot Sheep?” - Farmer Farmer poured three measures of Irn Bru, although he had the look of a three-fisted whisky drinker himself and handed one to each of his visitors; “not sheep, cows; but not strictly cows either – think Billion Dollar Man and you are getting closer: let me explain,” and Isa nodded encouragement; “these are hybrids; a dairy cow is really just a biological machine for turning grass into milk; so these are the next step in combining machine and biology: they are robot milkers (if you will excuse the nominalization) manufactured to resemble Belted Galloways, just because someone at the Institute happens to like Belted Galloways, and they contain a cloned digestive system so that when they chew the cud – or graze on grass, to reduce it to a degree of bathos which sums the entire process up – it is turned into milk, and as they do not sleep, they can do this all day and night long; the staff from the Institute milk them perhaps six times a day, rather than the traditional twice, morning and night; and unlike conventional high production indoor Milking Plants, they look just like cows in a field and this soothes the minds of environmentalists and tree-huggers, if you will forgive my slip there; every day at a time which is programmed into them, they make their way to the Milking Parlour where two pretty Milk Maids are waiting for them; after the last Milking yesterday they were transferred to a different field: because they are eating grass all day and night and have to be rotated regularly to allow the field to recover;” Isa stood: “thank you Farmer Farmer, can you take us to the Milking Parlour, we will need to speak with the Milk Maids
rather urgently, or PDQ if you prefer!” and Gertie leapt to her feet too.
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