What Happened?

Good grief! It's August already. Where have I been? Where have you been? What's happened to the crops and livestock? I tell you, the last thing I remember was falling off the bar stool down at my local hostelry, the Hope and Anchor, where I had been sampling some special Christmas scrumpy with my good friend the Proverbial Farmer Giles.

I have my trusted friends down on the farm to thank for bringing me up to speed after my enforced period of extended hibernation. I understand it was quite a dismal Spring anyway, so I can be excused for sleeping through. Apparently, a lot has been happening in the farm and village. The big news is that the mayor, Petorius the Great, has announced his retirement from the village council! Everyone is agog, and there was fervent following of the ensuing little local power struggle- hoes at dawn, the night of the long rakes, until a winner emerged, the owner of the village fete's Aunt Sally stall. Hold on to your coconuts!

Rumours are beginning to circulate down at the water trough that there is in existence a life-sized and almost life-like portrait of the soon-to-be-retired mayor. Requests for donations towards a leaving present have been circulated through the giant electronic message machine, with a little joke that a carriage clock might be on the cards. The last thing I would want is a clock once I've retired, especially an ornate monstrosity that would be a forever reminder of how little imagination or regard my colleagues had for me. A stuffed cow with udders in the form of a Newton's cradle would be original and would tell me that my colleagues really understood me, although I would have to get the mantelpiece reinforced and find another place for the clock. Hopefully more news before I go into hibernation again or unceremoniously get marched off the farm and exiled to the next village down the road.

The Fog Returns

Fog has returned to the fields of Septford, reinforcing the air of sameness as the low winter sun's rays are diffused over pigs and sheep alike.

The fog has a metaphorical as well as a meteorological meaning, reflecting the thinking of the farming council. Managers appear to be moved randomly from one barn to another, while farm workers are ushered like the livestock they tend into one of two lanes - the one-way trip to market being the worst outcome.

And while on the subject of foggy thinking, I saw a sign on one of my rare visits to the local large barn which advised workers to speak slowly and use hand gestures to help people understand them. I thought this was to help us communicate better with the village council and other farm managers. Not so. It was to improve communication with our customers with impaired mental functioning.

Can you guess what this hand gesture means?

Harvest Time

We have been working late in the evenings and even at the weekends to bring in the harvest this year. And what a harvest it has been! We have broken all past records and have received accolades from far and wide, even from beyond the permeable boundaries of our mega-farm. This is despite the unusually wet summer and strong winds and financial pressures we have had this year, factors which have clearly adversely affected other farms. We also have a milk lake so vast and pure that the gods weep at the beauty of it. Data flows bounteously from the various herds spread across the endless fields of Septford. How can this be? Consider...

Late summer evenings give us beautiful ever-changing skies, and it is lovely to see the birds perform their evening displays against these canvasses. On our farm, flocks of Stalins engage in eidectic displays above white lakes. The swans are not only mute, they are invisible.

Disappointment in the Farmyard

Unfortunately the rumours proved to be unfounded - our esteemed mayor was not given the honour of lighting the cauldron at the opening ceremony of the Olympic games. Some of the local villagers claimed to have seen him expertly wielding a sledgehammer amidst the dark Satanic mills of Septford, but on closer inspection it was a minor member of the council attempting to crack a nut. I hope he had completed his manual handling training.


More reliable reports suggested that the mayor was involved in negotiations to take over the running of Micronesia - in a government sense, not as an athlete -, a country which naturally lends itself to micro-management. The islands would look beautiful draped in corporate colours, and their location would only add marginally to travel expenses if we had a fleet of micro-lights at our disposal.


However, I have more pressing concerns at present, trying to calm my sheep after all the excitement of the ceremony. They loved listening to "Land of my Fathers" but were traumatised by "Tiger Feet". I had quite a job trying to coax them back into the waggon for the long journey home to Septford, and my borderline Collie was not much help because she was inappropriately interested in the copper pots.


On a more positive note, it was great to catch up with my old friend Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who frequently stood by my side when I steered the Isle of Wight ferry all those years ago. I think our long chats inspired him to build the SS Great Britain, but unfortunately I never got the chance to sail her. Anyway, it was good to build bridges with my friend of old.


Meanwhile, work on the farm cannot stop because of the Olympics. We farmers and shepherds are all gold medallists in a way - we "podium" every day. On the other hand, the council tend to be meddle-ists, a cross-wind on the village pond, impeding the progress of ducks.

Excitement in the Farmyard

Oh it has been a long time since my last post. I put it down to the hard work of traipsing across the waterlogged fields of Septford in my standard issue Wellington boots, adorned with a flash of corporate colours. I could of course use my tractor, but new instructions have recently been issued for all tractor licences to be inspected, together with the each farm worker's tractor insurance documentation. The council's tentacles slowly reach out to touch and entwine ever more aspects of our working lives, further impeding our endeavours to do what we have been trained to do. It is the cold touch of bureaucracy driven by paranoia - and I bet they don't even have a licence! Maybe soon I will have to sign a form each month to confirm that I am not involved in drug trafficking or mixing with terrorists because these are also illegal activities. Soon, there will be regular inspections of my fridge at home to check that I do not have any out of date food.

But it is not all doom and gloom! The recent unveiling of plans for the opening ceremony of the Olympics has generated much excitment on the farm and in the surrounding villages. We are hoping that we will be chosen to represent the nation, to showcase the bucolic idyll which is Septford. We are busy polishing the tractors and dipping the sheep in readiness for the ceremony. The word down by the water trough is that our own mayor may be the surprise choice to light the flame in the stadium - come the moment, come the man: there could not be a better match!

So, on that incendiary note, I will leave to search again for that stupid tractor licence.

Springtime in Septford

As you can imagine, things have been very hectic down on the farm of late, so apologies for not keeping you updated. A lambent light bathes the lambing fields of Septford. It is indeed a sight of bucolic beauty, of pastoral peacefulness and rural restfulness (it is a long time since we heard from my friend Alliterative Al).


However, sadly we know the short journey these lambs will take. Yet another round of farmyard re-disorganisation has taken place, managers led meekly to their fate with open trusting eyes, only to be confronted by a hideous effigy in corporate colours to which they swear allegiance.


And are the lambs in the field left free to gambol? Sadly not. For the termites of bureaucracy continue to build their hollow palaces, defacing the lambscape with their termitaria and impeding the free movement of livestock and shepherds alike.

Festive Farmyard Frolics

It is always interesting to visit the water trough, and how lovely now it is decked with holly and ivy. Unlike the misunderstanding at last year's Christmas party when Holly decked Ivy. Two pieces of news reached me during my latest visit.

Festive frolics in the main farm did not really get off the ground this year as workers chose in their dozens not to attend the Christmas party. Undaunted, the village council arranged for cattle trucks to transport workers from the main farm to the Christmas party arranged at one of its outposts more than a hundred miles away. The poor party-goers put on a brave face and a bit of tinsel as they dodged the cattle prods to help them on their way.

Many problems have been encountered with the new farmyard call centre. Some of the difficulties are caused by the sophisticated voice recognition system. These struggle at the best of times, but are really put to the test when callers are a little bit affected by their use of alcohol. I have suggested a simple solution. Callers could be asked to make animal noises to indicate the department they wish to be put through to. For example, moo-ing will get them through to Business Information (see earlier posts regarding milk production), and baa-ing will put them in touch with someone from senior management. I have a sneaky suspicion that the council is controlled by a sheep's head wired into the electronic mega message machine - cutting edge bio-infomatics. But not much good for cutting the hedges and keeping the grass down.