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 busy down on the farm of late, leaving too little time to update everyone with all the comings and goings. The good news is that the harvest has been safely gathered in, we have enough hay to see us through the winter. We have had plenty of sunshine in which to make the hay. Other good news is that our S. Cape goats are still with us, grazing on the upper fields. One feels their days are numbered. For others, the days are just numb. We sit in feigned interest on bales of hay, lulled into near-stupor by dull voices guiding us through the tick boxes we climb on to reach the loft. I spend hours getting lost in metaphors.

There are still dark clouds on the horizon, laden with uncertainty and cold rain. I have been too busy with my concubined harvester to visit my rhyming slang local The Hope and Anchor, and fear that my stool has been taken. The proverbial Farmer Giles hosted this year's ploughing contest and commented drily on the furrowed brows of the judges. His wit is endless while we are at our wits' end.

It is indeed harvest time. But how long before it will be hair-vest time? I feel, as ever, on the edge of falling from grace. Maybe that's why they took my stool.