Coffee first, then the goat.

This morning I discovered by way of Mrs. Jana (of course) that a Czech expression to unfavourably describe the stick-thin is "as skinny as a goat". This phrase came up in the course of her fervent attempts to sharpen my Czech people description abilities beyond, "He is tall. She is short. They have hair". No prizes for guessing which particular toothpick masquerading as an actress became the topic of conversation.

More importantly, this gave me the notion that there may be aspects of the Czech psyche with which I am One. The goat thing in particular. For although it is a fairly recent enmity, I hate, loathe and despise the vile beasts. I am emphatically not the goat fan. I am the rabid and irrational goat anti-fan. I take great delight in eating vast quantities of chèvre cheese on the grounds that somewhere, somehow, I may be depriving a runty baby goat of its mother's milk. If I went carnivorous, goat would be on the menu every night.

The origins of this sentiment aren't hard to discover. For a period of time I looked after a small child who had a pet goatlet (not my idea). Child was an early-morning type. I was not. Child was hugely amused by my pre-dawn incoherence. I was not.

It's probably obvious where this was headed, but at 5:00 am my thought processes aren't up to much.

Peaceful snoring.
Door opens.
Shove.
Goatlet enters.
Door closes.
Clip-clop of goaty hooves.
Snuffling noises.
Mastication.
Psssshhhhh.
Mastication.
Ominous silence.
Faint splish-splish.
Rumination.
Clip-clop.
Wet tug on hair.
Reflex tug back.
Loud BLEAT of offended ruminant.
Left ear deafened.
Goaty teeth chomp.
Howls of pain.
Goat flees.
I pursue.
Feet land in sticky puddle of goat effluvia.
Mix well.
Howls of rage.
Child chuckles.
Rinse and repeat.