Most English teachers have a fund of ambiguous headlines such as 'Dog attacks man with wooden leg' and instructional howlers like 'If your bird cannot eat seed, grind it into mash with water'. However, nothing has tickled my fancy so much in years as Rams by Appointment. Picture the scene. 

Handsome rams, hooves polished and ultrafine woollen coats gleaming white, lean against the side of shedded pens, casually picking their teeth with a straw. In warm yellow lantern light, the air is sweet with the scent of fresh fodder.

Outside, under a full moon, ewes on a girls' night out mill and jostle. 

'Go on, you ask. You're good at that sort of thing'.

'I'd be embarrassed,'

'Oh, go on. It'd be such fun and, anyway, that fellow with the triple horn curl is just waiting for you to knock and ask for him. On the way to the foot bath the other day he had his eyes on you ... we all saw.'

'Oh, all right, but I'm just asking, mind you. You'll all have to make your own appointments. I'm not going to be responsible for any regrets tomorrow morning.' 

The ewes clatter up the ramp happily.

'All right, ladies. Orderly now, no pushing and shoving.' The Master of the Shed looks them over. 'Who's making the booking tonight?'

'Me, sir.'

'All right. Tell your girls to stamp a print against the name that takes their fancy on the midnight slot  and I'll see what I can do.'

Giggling, the ewes line up and plant a footprint on the escort list against the likes of Belvedere Manton III, Chesterfield Cavan Wylie V and Seamus, Scion of Sunnyfield. The Master (a retired ram whose glory days are long past) casts an eye over their choices. 'All right ladies, you're welcome to the man of your choice. Remember, we work to schedule here, so when the bell rings you make way for the 1am appointments.'

Rams, lounging in best boudoir style, straighten up, discard their straws and prepare to entertain the ladies. Only monkish old Robert Methuselah VII scowls in the corner of his pen. He's done with giggling girls. He wishes he could just sit quietly with some comfortable ewe who'd perhaps give him a gentle rub behind the ear and be happy to sit and talk for a bit.

Right on 12.59am the ewes tumble back down the ramp boasting of their conquests as more eager ewes jostle for the 1am slot. Out in the paddock they quieten down and drift away, lost in dreams of silky lambs and lucerne fields.....

English, you got ta love it!