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.

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.

High Visibility

We take health and safety very seriously down on the farm. It is a place of many hazards. So in some ways it was not surprising to see a picture of the Mayor wearing a high visibility jacket in our monthly farmyard comic. He was visiting one of the outlying barns at the time. It is of course important to stand out from the crowd, not to be mistaken for part of the livestock, or a piece of discarded machinery (after all, the Mayor is not "admin", he is "exec"), or for a clump of unharvested wheat.  On the other hand, he would seem to be the last person to need an artificial aid to boost his visibility, for charisma surely is a burning torch?

Me? Oh, I quietly attend to my sheep, snug in my standard issue low visibility jacket, avoiding the light.