May 17th, 2011
Porksley pig had nothing he could do. His pinkish skin had turned to indigo blue. It had happened one night while he was asleep and turning in a dream, while sloshing around in a vat of whipped cream. He had munched his way through some blueberries on the table of the kitchen of farmer Smith, their heavenly aroma had sent him adrift.
Trotting in came one small and excited bluebeard, all the other pigs didn’t recognize him, " an alien he is!" they feared. Then in a panic he had woken up from the chants of "alien pig" making him feel rather small not big.
Porksley had found his dream had been real, they voted him out with no appeal. So off he trotted without a friend, his time at Smiths farm had come to a bitter end. He traveled lightly just sunglasses and hat, up the hills and on the flat.
When suddenly he came to a stop in a rather vast field, of lavenders blue, his fate has been revealed.
" Camouflage," he said out loud, " I could blend in here, may be make lavender honey and beer,"
He wouldn’t be short of a few bob, he would not be your usually piggy slob.
He found a sign post that read, " Butterbea farm," it had been decorated with bees and lavenders, it had its charm. So this delicate pig with incredible seasoning, had found a life with a lot of reasoning. He had come across his destiny in the shade of blue, to provide a sustainable service with a beautiful view.