No clutter.

Much smaller haul than yours: 1 diary and 1 voucher for a mini manicure.

I also got to (attempt to) make friends with a couple of Shaver hens; now I want some myself.

I also heard some neat oral history from my stepfather. I blogged about it, will copy-and-paste here:

Lester showed me some of his photos from the 50s - 70s. One was of his son, Malcom, aged maybe 8, standing proudly by a deer one of them had shot.

Me: So, your kids grew up quite comfortable with the circle of life and animals dying and all that?
Lester: Oh yeah yeah they saw that all the time they had no problem with that.

A few photos on and Malcolm was sitting in the back of a ute with a blindfolded deer, which I assumed was also dead. The next photo in the album was of the deer swimming across a bay. As the story behind these photos unfolded, I realised the first photo in the sequence was not of a dead deer but a rescued deer. The deer had been found apparently trying to swim a distance of seven or so miles, too far for the deer to have ever made it back to land. The blindfold was to keep the deer calm while he was transported to his new home (a farm).

Me: Hang on, a few photos ago you were proud of killing a deer. Now you're going all out to save this one? Why? What's the difference between the two? Was it because he was so plucky?
Lester: {great glee} Yes exactly! And it was fun to do! We figured, if he had the spirit and bravery to try and swim that bay, he was worth saving.

So there you go. If deer hunters decide that you, a deer, have the human quality of bravery (as opposed to, say, the human quality of stupidity) because for some reason unknown to humans you decided to swim across a bay, they will intervene and cart you off to an easy life on a farm somewhere, rather than put a bullet through your brain, like they did with a fellow member of your species last weekend.

Cheers,
pigpen