As I was hanging my laundry on the line this morning, I heard the unmistakable grunting of a pig coming from one of the sheds in the back. I walked over to the shed, went in, and looked into the pen. I found myself staring down at a piglet, snuffing up the gate hoping for a handout. I obviously began to imagine living scenes from Charlotte’s Web in real life and was delighted. I thought I may have missed the purchase of the pig while I was traveling, but I was told they had actually just bought it that morning from one of the Ukrainian Literature teachers at our school. At the dinner table this evening, the subject of how to name the pig came up. Various options were thrown around until my host mother yelled, “Margaret Thatcher” and pounded her fist on the table. I have no idea what connection the pig and Margaret Thatcher made in my host mother’s head, but I voted for it and have since been referring to her as such.
