Who’d be a sheep on shearing day? Jam-packed into a narrow space, thrown into a pool, a dog evil-eyeing you from the bank, clambering out, getting blown dry by a cold wind, being fleeced by a man with sharp shears (to be fair, this bit can be quite relaxing), released back, naked, into the cold, harried by dogs and dipped in a foul-smelling liquid. Then there’s the group photo – bet you can’t even make out which one I am, with all the shearers – and those dogs! – hogging the front rows.