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I am a llama, currently sat on a hillside, soaking up the warmth from what’s left of the setting winter sun. It’s not unpleasurable. In the neighbouring field a few ragged old sheep graze their days away, oblivious to their impending fate. It must be one of the benefits of being a sheep: you’re permanently oblivious to what’s around the next corner.

Being a llama however requires you to be in a permanent state of alertness. It’s why our necks are so long: we’re always looking for the next opportunity, the next big deal, the next time the farmer wanders in to the neighbouring field to herd together his oblivious sheep so that they can be carted off to the nearest abattoir. If sheep had longer necks and spent more time looking up into space rather than staring down at their feet, they might be a little less oblivious, a bit more alert and more likely to survive the next visit by the machete wielding farmer.

Today’s a case in point. I’m sat here, soaking up the warmth, stretching my neck and Lo and Behold what do we have drop down from the heavens? Only a host of bloody golden guardian angels blowing their trumpets, strumming their zithers and creating a God Almighty din. The sheep – naturally knowing nothing of what is happening – continue to graze amongst the heavenly host, three of whom are gathered around a satnav. They’re clearly lost; they scratch their heads, twizzle their beards and gesticulate at each other in a bit of a temper. One of them snaps his zither in two over the back of one of his compadres. There’s a bit of a guardian angel fracas.

The sheep remain oblivious to all the commotion apart from a couple of the brighter ones who look up and run off, startled at the sight of quarrelling guardian angels wielding acoustic instruments at each other.

Me, I’m sat here in the warmth of the setting winter sun, waiting for the noise to die down. Once they come to their collective angelic senses, I’ll tell them what they want to know.