Social Integration

A friend at the weekend expressed concern that I was in danger of becoming a recluse. Perhaps it was my ‘waxing lyrical’ as to the tried and tested techniques for setting mole traps, or the huge heap of kindling, a result of many a happy hour with my axe which alerted her radar to the prospect of me going native.

 

‘But I do work at least 2 days a week in an office, with lots of people and I chat to my new found commuting friends on the train’, I protested.

‘And just who are you seeing the rest of the week?’ She quickly retorted.

‘The pigs……and the chickens…..’ I was interrupted.

‘Human contact!!’

I had to think long and hard.

‘Well, there is our neighbour’…..her simile only lasted a miniscule of a second as I finished my sentence, ‘we regularly discuss the vagaries of his tractor hydraulics and he was only telling me the other day, how important it is to check the oil level every day’.

 

The expression on her face said it all – a combination of sorrow and utter disbelief.

 

Reflecting on our conversation, I decided to make a visit it was time to embrace social integration. A friendly letter, from the lady who collects the subscriptions to the village newsletter seemed a good starting point. Off I went and had a lovely hour, chatting over a cup of mellow birds by a warm Rayburn. My new friend suggested that the solution to my social predicament lay with the Women’s Institute.

 

The Women’s Institute?? But I’m not even 35 I muttered to myself as I trudged back up the hill reflecting on my morning.

 

With work not scheduled until later in the week, I began to think my friend may well have had good reason to be concerned. I sat at my desk to ponder and hey presto, lurking in the pile of generator manuals – a drinks invitation for an office opening – tonight!! Who says I’ve gone native??! I changed out of my scruffs and into suit and heels in record time and couldn’t wait to sip champagne, mingle, discuss ground breaking professional matters……..see people!!

 

The reality was that after all of about 10 minutes of being talked at by a rather pompous tweed suit, a glass of warm sparkling wine in one hand and the other wrestling with an overly large canapé, I found myself hankering after a cup of mellow birds with my new friend.

 

Jam and Jerusalem, here I come!!

Thursday 19th February 2009 – my first mole

It’s offical! I am a mole catcher of note……….well, I have caught one, a big one and very exciting it was too! The smug satisfaction stuck with me for at least 3 days. It has now worn off despite the fact that the dead mole is ceremoniously hung on the fence by the back gate for all to admire providing a daily reminder of my achievement. There are two problems – the dead mole is starting to smell and it hasn’t to date, been joined by any of it’s friends.

Rather than providing a marker of my mole hunting efficiencies – the said dead mole only serves to fuel suspicion that  I have gone stark raving mad.

I have become completely obsessed with my trapping. Armed with my spade, gloves and traps, I am on a one woman mission to restore my view from its current lunar appearance back to uninterrupted meadow. I have approached my task with a significant amount of planning and preparation. The first rule of war, is, I understand, know your enemy. As such I have spent many a long evening researching everything there is to know about these velvety devils. I am alarmed by the breeding cycle and as such have put down the books to focus on manoeuvres. I eagerly follow runs and have spent far too long squashing old mole hills so that I can monitor their recent movements.

Sadly, all of this for just one mole. I shall not be deterred – the war continues.

Meanwhile, there appears to be trouble in the hen house. Having been convinced that out of my 11 surviving birds, only one was a cockerel, suddenly, it looks like I’ve got at least one more. They may just be butch hens but I am sure I heard a stifled cock a doodle do from one of them. This could explain my lack of eggs – still nothing and the weather is so much milder. Clearly, no amount of mild weather is going to encourage the cocks to lay!

I think more hens are called for.

23rd December 2008 – A cheery christmas commute to the city

Having just received a free cuppa from the young trolley man on my commute north – my spirits are lifted! Christmas really is upon us. I don’t really want to think too hard about all that is to do at home (including the annual pilgrimage for a free Christmas tree – more of that later) but I am looking forward to a cheerful day in the office. Why can’t we tackle every day with the same cheeriness that we manage the day or two before Christmas?

 

Train very quiet this week – my regular travelling companions, already on their holidays. The platform at the start of my journey is usually host to an amusing assortment of characters. There’s the country gent travelling to the city to earn his crust – no doubt keeping the children in school and the roof on the old pile. Immaculately tuned out, all he is missing is the rolled up newspaper and a bowler hat! The goatee beard – bedecked in suit with the most extraordinary pair of brown hob nail boots provides much intrigue – just what does he do? Particularly as he departs at the most sleepy town in North Shropshire, trousers carelessly tucked in his boots, he strides forth purposefully with a clickety, click of his boots to who knows where! Then there’s the battle of the cyclists – the small grey beard with his fold up bike and the young thrusting athlete, clad head to foot in lycra! Mr Lycra can usually be spotted looking down his nose at Grey Beard with utter disdain – clearly not convinced by the environmental benefits of fold up bicycles, preferring a cycle with tyres so narrow they look sharp enough to slice through paper!

 

The chickens are becoming bolder by the day and have recently discovered their wings – regularly they greet me defiantly from the top of the stable wall. I am faced with no option but to clip their wings – although how I tackle this remains a quandary – what I do know is that even my amateur attempts to curtail their flying habits will be preferable to them being eaten by a fox or more likely a small terrier!