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.