The hot weather has been slowly kicking in lately and our woolly friends have been getting a bit hot under the collar.

So, like all sheep farmers across the country, we called upon a trusty flock of shearers to perform some pretty drastic haircuts. Now, traditionally, shearers are young, tanned, topless, muscle laden types with accents from down under. Think grubby Chippendales in a field with large scissors.

They have all manner of tales of life on the road as they tour the world’s sheep farms, armed with clippers more suited to a garden hedge than a hair salon.

They drink Fosters, smoke roll-ups, and know exactly how to manhandle dozens of hot fiesty females, giving them an all body make-over within minutes.

If anything could drag County Girl away from double Hollyoaks, this is it. She would happily fold a few fleeces for an afternoon amidst this fine flock.

So imagine her disappointment when some fat bloke from Wales turned up in a Subaru.

I could have cried. I didn’t, I switched over to Britain’s Got Talent.

I have to admit I’m never to sure about bald sheep. There is something just not right about them. What is a sheep without wool anyway. Nothing. No one. As far as I’m concerned it’s no longer a sheep.

I wonder too what it must feel like to be stripped of your identity. I can only imagine it must be like wondering down the street with no clothes on.

To add to the injustice, I’m told a fleece can only be flogged for a little under a fiver. And ewe can guarantee it will probably end up in some jumper no one likes. Thank God it grows back.