March 2009 Archives

I have finished my SFP form (light the touch paper on the fireworks, last call to the orchestra to play Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance).

The figures all add up and have been reconciled with the people in the RPA dungeons (they were all lovely and helpful this year).  Providing I don't get a paper cut on my tongue as I lick the envelope, the misery is over for another 12 months.

"Oi, what are you doing?  Get back to your forms"

I'm just having a little break from numbers and ringing Geordies at the RPA office, OK?  Besides, I've nearly cracked it now.  I've already had to ring the Toon Army 5 times though.

It seems that you got a bit of a scoop re the new masthead over on Catchat.  It was only launched yesterday.  Still not sure why the Relfster is on the tilt in it.  Have a look at the photo.  It looks as though the boxing glove has been Photoshopped out of the picture.

Our bank manager has cancelled an appointment this morning (he's busy jumping out of a tower block or something) so I've got a spare hour and a half this morning.  Woo hoo, it's Friday (punches air and eats a Crunchie)

Still loads to do.  I've had a v. productive hour at my desk already.  Daffodil sales ledger is up to date, proposed pesticide undertakings posted to customers, sundry admin requests dealt with and in envelopes and now, Da Da Dahhh, I've finally got to my Single Farm Payment Form.

It's a job that usually fills me with rage but I've made a cup of coffee and I'm going to get it in the bag early this year.  I might make a Do Not Disturb sign for the door first.  Probably I could laminate it.

"Come on.  Crack on then." I hear you say. "Put your laminator away.  Why are you writing this unnecessary entry when the forms need filling in?"

"Well, I'm limbering up, aren't I?  I'm getting in the zone."

"But writing this isn't going to put you "in the zone" you prat.  Writing a blog entry is a creative process.  You don't need any creativity to fill in an SFP form."

"Well.  You say that..."

Here is a news story (nicked from the new look Catchat.  Check it out - Relfster is listing somewhat on the masthead)  The story is about a chap called David Thorner who worked unpaid for 25 years on a farm on the understanding that he would one day inherit it. 

You're a step ahead of me here.  You're thinking "He so didn't get that farm."  Correct, mon petit ami.  In that great farming tradition of "being bad with paperwork", the farmer died intestate.

Now this cheered me up.  It's a "happy slap incident" of Jeremy Clarkson getting trapped in a portaloo.  He was in for for quite a long while for just a wee.

Most of the people who harvest our flowers come from Eastern Europe.  They are brilliant.  Reliable, great work ethic and very straight forward although conversation skills limited in some cases.

When you are speaking with people in their second (or third) tongue the language just doesn't flow as freely as it might.  This renders our very English habit of making tiny talk about the usual topics of weather, bowel movements and Sir Alan Sugar both complicated and unnecessary.  (Although Sugar really is an annoying old honey-roast ham isn't he?)

Dialogues with the team therefore tend to be limited to pure practicalities to avoid deep, if  well-intentioned, misunderstanderstandings (I realise now that I have spelt that incorrectly but it looks just peachy so it's staying)

Anyway.  I have enough examples of these misunderstanderstandings and failed conversational gambits to fill seven volumes in hardback.  They happen with such regularity here that I don't normally record them but there was a corker yesterday which is worth sharing.

Yesterday the flower croppers were working near some dog boarding kennels and they were barking like crazy (the croppers, I mean, obviously the dogs were silent).  I was steeling myself for one of these afore-mentioned stilted, Anglo-Lithuanian chats. 

I attempted to initiate the chat by putting my hands over my ears to drown out the barking in a comic way (tip - usually visual humour is a bridge across the language division, falling over in front of people is an absolute banker) unfortunately, and to my horror, I just got a non-plussed expression in return.  Then I started worrying that they would think that I wanted them to crop the flowers more quietly or something. 

I tried to get things back on an even keel by following up my little mime routine by seguewaying straight into the evergreen British conversation opener

"Do you have a dog?"

The response was promising.  "Yah"

"Oh nice," says I. "What type is it?"

"Is not TYPE.  Is just dog"

Life is lovely and simple over there.  I now have this image of a breedless, generic and unbranded "DOG" which was standard issue for comrades in the former Eastern Bloc.  A Tesco Value dog if you will (or Waitrose Essentials if we really want to be bitter).

Choice is hugely overrated anyway (see below)

And this has all worked out beautifully.  I had been looking for a tenuous link to enable me to print this atrocious photo.  Be appalled, be very appalled

I've got new boots on today.

Busy day, thirty pallets of flowers, four cups of coffee, two vicars and one packet of plain chocolate biscuits.

We always provide flowers for our local vicar, a lovely lady called Rosamund, to hand out at Moulton All Saints on Mothering Sunday.  We also have another random vicar from Leeds who calls.

You know me, I love a visitor particularly a vicar.  It was a bit disconcerting for everyone else to see vicars coming and going, they wondered what on earth was going on.  It was cool though, like a proper village scene from Postman Pat or the |Archers.

The divine calmness was helpful because the rest of the day was terribly busy.  I tried to be like a swan, serene and graceful but paddling frantically below the surface (with webbed feet but that's a Lincolnshire thing - it has nothing to do with the methaphor)

The week before Mothering Sunday is the Big One in the flower calendar.  Today we have been busy packing and preparing to dispatch flowers to all corners of the country.

I actually remembered to pick up my camera today (and unlike me it had charged batteries)  so I took a couple of shots.  They say a picture is worth a 1000 words although these photos are quite crumby so they are only worth 500.  Oh, on the subject of photos, I've got a cracking dog in a wig photo to share with you at some point too.  Now that photo's worth a thousand lashes with the birch for the twisted soul who took it.

 Anyway.  Here are some of yesterday's flowers ready to be outloaded.

Here is one of our fields of delphiniums.  I have never seen them so far advanced at this time of year; we have already had to apply a second fungicide.  I feel like a proud parent watching a child in a nativity play when I look at these plants 

Here is my vase testing facility for daffodils.  Basically it's my office window.  There's a heady scent in here because all surfaces are covered with flower vases.  Still it makes a nice change from the smell of strong coffee and RPA Single Payment application forms.

My Saturday night has already been recorded more poetically (and with more lavish illustration) on a better blog elsewhere but I promised to tell you about it and I jolly well will.

We were driving from Stamford to a cocktail party in Primrose Hill with my friend Katie, a rather remarkable confectioner, nursing on her lap an elaborate cake she had made.  The cake had taken 50 hours to make and so there was considerable pressure for me to drive carefully (and I had taken Mum's Audi that night so it was double jeopardy).

Everytime I braked, accelerated or drove over an imperfection in the road, Katie would shriek like a girl (Katie is a girl by the way).  It was good practice in driving smoothly but my nerves were shot to pieces before we had even reached South Mimms.

I had a Satnav thing on top of the dashboard to help to negotiate NW London.

We came across one of those lumpy sleeping policeman things where you have to drive with one wheel up and one down.  I did my best but the cake let out an almightly "Uuuuuuu", Katie went "Aaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" and the Satnav slid across the dash in a cakeward direction.

We had a nightmare vision of how uncomfortable it would be if the host opened the door to be presented with a mangled cake with a Tomtom embedded in the side of it repeating "You have reached your destination, turn around when possible."

The cake looked magnificent (possibly better than when we left if I say so myself) and the party was splendid - it is a rare treat to spend a night with the beautiful people. 

I forgot my trousers.  I went down to Hampshire one night last week to give an after dinner speech to the John Edgar Trust and their 2009 scholars.  I was well behind schedule; it was a fairly busy day and I didn't want to leave work until the last lorry had been loaded.

The journey was crumby.  Actually, writing about this has reminded me how crumby it was.  I had forgotten how annoying it actually was at the time.  I was trying to get to Stockbridge for 7.00pm and I got stuck on some road or other (was it the M3?) for over an hour. 

I had got the entire back catalogue of the Wiggly Wigglers podcast on the ipod in the car so I was listening to that.  Even lovely Heather's voice was annoying me (and I love her more than Toffee Crisps so you can tell how hopeless the journey was).

I arrived about one and half hours late ( or "an ar un arf" as we say in South Lincolnshire).  I ate the three courses in record time as everyone else drank their coffee - as though Norris McSquirter was stood over me with a stopwatch - and then I stood up and told a few farming-related knob gags. 

Oh, and I forgot my suit trousers.  So I spoke wearing jeans and a checked Hackett sports jacket (which had been in the back of my car for ages).  I looked like Jeremy Clarkson (and I say that with no pride whatsoever). 

Then I had a chance to have a drink with some of the scholars until quite late.  I felt a bit envious that I wasn't actually on the course to tell you the truth, they were good company.  We were kicked out the bar when the barman stopped getting paid (it was 2.00am, I think).

I was in the car by 5.30 the next morning so in desperate need of a coffee when I got back to my desk.

I've just lost the last entry that I did.  Sorry I meant to call it a blog to annoy Adam Tinyurl, the Farmers Weekly's tame internet nerd.  He's a stickler for cyber semantics, you know.(Adam does a splendid job doing internet stuff that I don't understand.  Just checking that you are still reading, Adam.)

I've just lost the last blog that I did, now that's better. 

Anyway.  In this blog, I wanted to have a proper catch up with you.  I feel that the narrative thread of our dialogue has completely disintegrated.  If it wasn't for the continuity of the weird dog stuff this whole blog would be in danger of becoming rather random.

The thing is, my life is currently quite random in its own little way.  When you write a blog there are some things that you write about and some that you don't.  And just because the blog has gone dull it doesn't necessarily follow that my life has.  Sometimes the opposite is true (although to be fair to you my life is mostly pretty dull.  I don't want you thinking that when the entries are bad it's because I've been indulging in News of the World style "cocaine-fuelled two in a bed love romps in a Spalding love nest.")

Sorry, I'm not being intentionally nebulous.  I'm just having a very intense Spring and my outlook is changing. 

Enough, this introspective stuff can't be good for you to read, I'm going to start another entry.  

People keep stopping me in the street (actually it's ages since I was in a street) and saying "Hey Matth, when are you doing another dog in fancy dress picture on your hilarious MOuth of the Wash blog?"

"Well," I reply, "the wait is over (and please don't call me Matth)."

 I bet that you've never seen a dog wearing a python before.  It's a Maltese terrier in there.

Our neighbour visited this morning.  I have told you about him before, he's rather eccentric.

He's now 80 and has some serious and painful muscular problems which make his life rather tough.  He has smoked a pipe for as long as I've known him but I've noticed that it has had a different aroma lately.   I felt decidedly relaxed after a few minutes in his company so I'm guessing he has found a substance which helps with his pain relief more than tobacco.

I am considerably more relaxed than usual anyway.  Goodness knows why, nothing is going to plan.  This might explain why I had such difficulty writing my FW column for this week's magazine; I'm much better when I've got a bee in my bonnet.

Similarly I've been a bit slow getting entries on here.  The weather is great and I've got a thousand pleasurable tasks to do around the farm, garden and house as a result.

I'm not trying to blackmail anyone but I tend to write more when there are more comments flying around.  I've got a peachy story from this weekend (I was out with another blogger too so you may get it in 3D).

I'm goping to collate today's flower orders ready for dispatch.

Perhaps I am reading too much into this story about the selection/election of the next NFU Vice President, but I like to imagine that behind the scenes there are "House of Cards" style wranglings of the sort that you see in politics when leadership vacancies arise.  (Sorry that sentence was rather long, it was almost a Broomism)

It's a shame to see Paul Temple step down, he was a good guy and he worked well with Peter Kendall and "Uncle" Meurig Raymond.  Although the NFU comes in for a bit of stick about how its leaders are chosen, we had a strong team at the top.

Richard Macdonald, the Director General, is also stepping down this year.  In my few dealings with him I have always thought that he was exceptionally good.

It will be interesting to see how and when the replacements are chosen.

Waitrose have announced that they are launching a value range and cutting prices on fresh produce.  (Heaves shoulders and sighs in a theatrical way).

This shows how serious "The Crunch" TM has now become.  What next?  Are Rolls Royce going to bring out a "budget" vehicle to compete with the Kia Picanto?  Is Rolex going to bring out a plastic, digital calculator watch?

Presumably Mark Price knew about all this when he spoke at the NFU conference (and when I did my over-excited interview with him) but decided that it was not the ideal place to start spouting about it.

Waitrose may be one of the fairest supermarkets to work with but they are still a supermarket. 

I haven't given you a farm round up for a while.  The wind is blowin' a hooley today so it feels about 5 degrees colder than it actually is out there.  We are tentatively starting a few jobs around the farm like fertiliser top dressing on flowers (precision-placed granules so the wind doesn't affect the job) and a bit of cultivation around the outsides of the fields and to level the plough furrows. 

The top of the soil looks in great condition - the successive frosts have done wonders for us which will hopefully save us a bit of money on fuel when we start planting crops.  I am not sure what the conditions are like beneath the surface; there was a lot of water standing around a couple of weeks ago after the snow melted.

The potato equipment is all ready to go but I suspect it will be nearly a fortnight before we inclined to start planting.

The daffodil harvest has been continuing quite smoothly.  There is a bit of pressure on the trade at the moment because the supply of flowers has increased in line with the warmer weather.  This is all likely to improve later in the week as the backlog gets sold and the demand builds up for Mothering Sunday.

I'm sure that it's not easy being Peter Mandelson.  I'm no longer sure what I would do differently if I were doing his job.  I almost have a bit of sympathy for him.

So why, then, did I find it so satisfying when that lady threw some goo in his face this week?  We live in a democracy where she has a choice of civilised ways to put her point to a parliamentary representive; it shouldn't have been necessary for her to do that.  

I ought to be unimpressed by her childish protest, instead I BLOOMIN' LOVED IT.  I think that she should be made a Dame.

She has done a lot to raise the profile of her campaign.  Her actions achieved more than a letter to her MP.  We should be questioning the impact of more air travel (Come on, with the value of sterling who the hell can afford to abroad anymore?) 

I do not doubt that most MPs work long hours and believe that they are acting in the nation's best interests.  Sometimes, though, they just need a bit of green goo throwing in their faces to get them back on track.

I was corrected by our Yorkshire correspondent, Mike, for my use in an earlier entry of the simile "as wet as a pancake."  He said it should be "as flat as a pancake."

He was right, of course (he's uncharacteristically intelligent for someone who reads this blog). 

This thing is I'm not very good at similes so I just use pancake for everything....

As the UK government are busy flushing more of our money down the toilet, the Chinese government has announced an increase of £13 billion (sterling) to their agricultural budget.

This seems a more far-sighted policy to me.  I won't bore you on the subject; you know as well as I do that securing affordable food for the future is a much more noble and necessary goal than temporarily shoring up our Monopoly money economy and the useless and greedy corporate finance industry.

Only a generation with no concept of the meaning of the word hunger would think otherwise.

It feels like forever since we last had a dog in a wig doesn't it?

Basically I've bought a new iron.  Such extravagance.  See how I laugh in the face of the credit crunch, ha ha.

Actually I'm not being purely frivolous.  I dropped my last iron on the floor and it broke into many pieces and shirts still need to be ironed, you know.

I'm always dropping irons on the floor.  This is my fourth iron.  I'm the darling of the iron industry, I should be given some sort of award by them.  Normally I just grab a cheapie from Tesco when I'm doing my shopping but I'm trying to cut down on supermarket shopping; I haven't been in a Tesco for over a month.

I ended up going to Currys.  My reasoning was that I would buy a good iron this time and then I might show it a bit of respect.

Anyway.  The whole point of this entry is to tell you about the Bosch iron.  Take a peek.

How's that for a bloke's iron then?  It looks like a power tool, doesn't it?  I asked if they had a De Walt one as well.

I didn't buy it though.  I went for a Philips one.  It does magic stuff with ions which I don't understand.  I used it for the first time tonight and it has neon lights all over it.  It's a disco iron.  I felt like John Travolta as I did my shirts.

It's a funny old business this blogging.  I find it hardest to write an entry when I have the most to tell you.  I meant to write about Norfolk Farming Conference and Southwell Ploughing Match dinner last week but the moment passed. 

It's tough to write about things when I am busy or under pressure and so I haven't written for a while.

The improvement in the weather mean that we have been busy on the farm.  The tractors and equipment have all been serviced ready for Spring.  The daffodil flower harvest is ticking along nicely and we have started a few outdoor jobs.  Last week the land was still as wet as a pancake but the conditions have improved quickly in the last few days.  We have been spraying fungicides today and are about to start applying fertiliser to the perennial flowers.

There have also been a few unexpected problems in the business which have taken up a fair bit of time and energy.  I was getting rather stressy towards the end of last week.  Luckily I managed to get into town at the weekend for a bit of a break.  I caught up with friends and we had tickets for the opera on Saturday.

It was brill.  I didn't finish work until lunchtime on Saturday and I was back on Sunday afternoon but it felt like a proper mini holiday and it's been ages since I have felt properly relaxed. 

On Sunday we went for lunch at Carluccios in Smithfield.  We walked back by St Pauls Cathedral and guess who was walking along the street?  That's right.  Bloomin' Alistair Darling.  He was going for a stroll with his dark eyebrows.  He looked as though he didn't have a care in the world.  You'd think that he'd at least have the decency to stay under his duvet crying at the weekends.

I did a double take and didn't make sense of the situation quickly enough to do anything.  I'm not sure what I would have done.  Shook my fist and gone "Grrrrrrrrr" probably.  I wasn't carrying an egg else I would probably have thrown that it his general direction. 

I guess even useless Chancellors are entitled to a day off to recharge their uselessness once in a while but I had a little rant to my friends Will and Sam.  I said he could be doing something useful with his time, like putting dog poo through Sir Fred "Good"win's letterbox.  They were a bit cooler and more grown up about the whole situation (they have a tracker mortgage).

Anyway.  We walked back past Tate Modern and there was a little Morph convention going on and that put me in a good mood again.