Double decker dreaming

The lucky orange socks clinging to still-cold toes didn't seem so
bright now. Outside of this hurtling double-decker bus, bouncing over
these Norfolk back roads, stands a farmer in a ragged blue-checked
shirt in a field of cows, wagging his finger. He was either counting
cattle, or telling a cow off. I wasn't sure which. A clump of battered
overhanging oak branches tumbled down the tin roof. And then there were
those lucky orange socks, down there. I'd worn them purposely this
morning, and yet we lost, 2-1. I'd worn my lucky socks. And we had
lost. All was not what it seemed with the world. On the way back, a cow
was mounting a somewhat reluctant heifer, who was doing her utmost to
waddle away, what with that heavy load on her hindquarters. That heifer
was going to be that cow's bitch, whether the heifer liked it or not,
which it clearly did not. Which I guess would make the cow the dog. Put
another way, I guess that would make the heifer the cow's cow to the
cow's bull. Either way, the cow was the butch one.