March 8th. A brief Musical Interlude

My eldest was performing in Morpeth this evening.  In the interest of family dynamics (prevention of open warfare !) It seemed a fairly reasonable idea that an evening with the English Philharmonic, may indeed, soothe the savage breast / beast (insert as appropriate)

 Although I arrived with masses of time to spare; we entered the Hall, only to find it was jam-packed ... culture for the masses ... 

Spying three empty seats right in the front row: with elbows akimbo, I shoved through the gathered thong, their plastic wine glasses wildly punctuating the orchestra's tuning, with the two youngest (He-Who-Believes-He-Should-Be-Obeyed having been abandoned in the lambing shed with a corned beef sandwich, chuntering, not so quietly, and certainly not under his breath, "Suppose ...  Alright for some ...") and allowed myself a smug, self congratulatory, smirk.  Too late did I realise that two feet away from the percussion section (Cymbals !) was not the ideal spot ! ... 

"So, Mummy," asked the youngest, "Is this going to be Rock or Pop ? Aren't there an awful lot of elderlies here ?  (PC in schools doesn't allow us to use the word 'Old' anymore) ... 'Will they be okay do you think ?"

It was a wonderful first half. We left soon after. Much as I generally enjoy Faure's Requiem, I  really did feel that we'd had enough gnashing of teeth for one evening ...

March 4th

Anticipation is mounting in the Lambing Shed ...

Medical supplies have been double checked . . .
Tea; coffee; a kettle and warm blanket are now in situ . . .
Game plans are finalised ..

All is, seemingly, tranquil ...

Give it two weeks, this shed is going to look very different: Think Sweeny Todd's cellar ... lambs flinging themselves into the world like horizontal Jacks In The Boxes ... toddling bloodily and greasily around, blaring little voices hitting unbelievable decibel levels ...

He-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed has altered his predictions from gloomy to dire ...

........................................ The sun shines on the righteous ....

March 3rd 2014

To paraphrase Fu Manchu ..."The World will hear from me again" ... well; maybe a dozen or so souls anyway ...

Lambing is now upon us.The first pair have arrived safely and we just await the onslaught to follow.
He-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed, beset by doom, has developed a, rather irritating, twitch; is nursing the return of his ulcer and gloomily predicting the unleashing of demonic forces, in wooly form, sometime within the next month  ....
Of course, there is one unassailable truth to lambing: It is finite. Nature will follow her course: We just have to acknowledge her superior talents and run with it. Each of the ewes must deliver ...it's just our job to do the best that we can to see their lambs safely into this world ... but, hey, these are sheep ... Kamikaze from birth ...
My stocks of 'Pepto Bismol' sit, smilingly, on the top pantry shelf ...

August 6th

I went phone shopping today.
Now, I use my phone in a very basic manner:  I make calls; send text messages and take photos. That's it. I don't do apps; imps; wizards or whatever . . . I'm hopelessly technophobic.
However, as it's soon to be my birthday, I had persuaded he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed that I needed a phone with a better camera . . . he was delighted with the suggestion; it saved him having to do any lateral thinking or, even worse, having to guess my bra size if I asked for lingerie . . .
So, bright and early, the girls and I hit the High Street.
Have you seen the price of phones ?!  Whatever a megapixel may be, it cannot possibly be worth nearly a whole calf . . . Or four lambs !
Suitably horrified, I frogmarched the girls away from all the bright, shiny things and into a dingy little second hand electrical shop. . .
 There it was; an old model, but with twelve of those megapixel thingys . . . A bargain at seventy pounds.
"You know Mummy," mused my eldest, "that phone's pretty much as good as those posh ones. It's just tattier, that's all."
Pretty much like meself, methinks !

August 4th

Woke yesterday to what appeared to be a great combining day. The sun was shining and the breeze was just right.
He-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed duly hopped onto the quad to nip down for a final check . . .
Yup,  the barley was most certainly ready . . .
Moreover, he wasn't the only one to agree that it was, indeed, quite ripe enough; thank you very much !
We had had a breakout; a revolt, pandemonium on the back benches: The cattle had stormed the Bastille; taken out the fences and elevated al fresco dining to an entirely new level. . .
The bull was looking decidedly mutinous and, whilst there could be no doubt that his bulk would have played a huge part in the operation, he's a lot more more brawn than brain  . . .
The Intelligence could only be . . . The silver Charolais . . . !   I do have a soft spot for her  . . . She's trouble, but anything that will jump a five-bar gate whilst eight months pregnant deserves a round of applause !
Eventually, after he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed had exhausted his entire back catalogue of Ye Olde English Curses and sweated more than a few buckets, we were done by nightfall   . . . ready to bale the straw this morning . . .
Until the hailstones came !
Which forecast predicted that ?

July 31st

Our new super-duper; all singing, all dancing fridge freezer arrived today . . . so, as I rearranged the boot room to clear a workable space (not occupied by wellies; leggings; overalls; dogs dishes; coats; logs; a chest freezer and the cat) in which it should be placed with all due obeisance . . . Oops . . . it seems that the old carpet had lifted with such vigorous activity. . . what a shame . . . Better to get the whole thing up . . . We're going to need some flooring done !
Positively quivering at the anticipation of a dedicated beer shelf, he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed  greeted the delivery men with the level of enthusiasm normally reserved for the appearance of  burlesque dancers !
With much flourish the box was removed and the glorious item loaded onto the trolley.
The delivery men huffed and puffed; he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed developed an upper lip sweat . . . the damn thing wouldn't fit through the door !
We took off the door . . . Still wouldn't fit . . .
There was no other option . . .  it was going to have to go though the front of the house; past the sitting and dining rooms; we'd have to remove the hall door; then pass the cellar door; pass the pantry; through the kitchen and into it's rightful place.
The delivery men have replaced the doors and are are threatening to boycott the Farm . . .  but the cold beer is now going down very nicely indeed  !

July 28th

Woke this morning to rain streaming down in that ominous straight trajectory that always seems to indicate the start of monsoon season (on the Nat Geo channel anyway)  Here in Northumberland, however, it means only one thing; Harvest time !
The pick-up has bogged down already; leggings and wellies have reappeared (and are now leaking through ... he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed is soaked to the nethers !  ) and gloomy predictions abound . . . Based on a calculation of the amount of corn lying, washed off and on the ground / sq inch = total acreage ... We're going to be written off and bankrupted !
In addition, it's apparently inevitable that the fourteen in-calf heifers that arrived last night are all going to slip if they go hooning around in this wet  (they've all got their heads down, munching contentedly) . . .
Let's just check the forecast again . . . !