James Alfred Wight OBE FRCVS (3 October 1916 – 23 February 1995), better known by his pen name James Herriot, was a British veterinary surgeon and author. (wikipedia)
They can't find my house now because I keep it very quiet where I live.
I will write another book if I feel like it.
I seem to have spent a good part of my life - probably too much – in just standing and staring.
If a farmer calls me to a sick animal, he couldn't care less if I were George Bernard Shaw.
There was no last animal I treated. When young farm lads started to help me over the gate into a field or a pigpen, to make sure the old fellow wouldn't fall, I started to consider retiring.
I was helped by having a verbatim memory of what happened years ago, even if I can't remember what happened a couple of days ago.
I became a connoisseur of that nasty thud a manuscript makes when it comes through the letter box.
If I had been a little dog I'd have gone leaping and gambolling around the room wagging my tail furiously.
It was Sunday morning (one a.m.), a not unusual time for some farmers, after a late Saturday night, to have a look round their stock and decide to send for the vet.
For years I used to bore my wife over lunch with stories about funny incidents.