This is the sort of thing people do: I arrived at Mrs Stuyvesant's and her husband Peter. She had already gone out, and in order that I could carry on with the job in hand - i.e. making a lot of dust and mess in the living room - she had left an envelope thoughtfully taped to the back door which of course was locked. I removed the envelope and opened it; inside was a note with precise instructions: "The key is in the garage, on the left underneath the biscuit tin."
During the day the orphan lamb in the adjoining field became more and more insistent in its demand for bottled formula milk. I had to take matters into my own hands in the absence of Mrs S, the surrogate mother. Having mixed up some powder then worked out how to get the teat in its mouth the lamb was happy as...Larry? I recalled something Mrs S said the day before: "They're so cute like this, it's a pity they have to turn into stupid smelly sheep when they grow up".
For myself, I think I'm closer to stupid smelly sheep than cuddly wee lamb.
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