Flindt on Friday: Socks, jocks and rock around the clock

You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not my usual beacon of cheeriness this week.

You see, it’s dawn on Sunday, and I haven’t slept a wink. And tonight was going to be the night to catch up on sleep after a bad week.

On Wednesday, just after having written about how well the haymaking went, my lower back gave way. I wish it had been doing something ruff ’n’ tough like hauling bales around, but no; I was putting on a sock.

See also: Video: Late start to winter barley harvest after freak storm

Sleeping during those hot nights with a torso in spasm was challenging – and Jane the Physio didn’t have an appointment for a week, dammit.

Then, suddenly, the winter barley was ready, we had only one dry day, but still no combine. Luckily, neighbour Robert Jnr’s monster was available for a day, but that meant somebody had to do high-speed corn cart.

Hazel insisted she had to wash her hair, so that left me, with a back spasm, having not done corn cart for years, trying to keep up with Robert’s 50ft cut machine doing Mach 0.6.

The only blessing was that the yield was terrible – really dismal – so there was time to gulp painkillers.

Shattered dreams

The rain arrived in the small hours of Saturday, with thunder and lightning to wake the dead.

The Manor Farm animal magnet had been left on, too, and a mosquito continued the tropical theme by biting me on both temples as I slept fitfully.

So I spent Saturday feeling a bit swollen and sorry for myself, and somewhat fed up. The only bright spot was when older son arrived down from Camden for a few weeks of fresh air.

He was tired, I was tired – we were all tired, and relishing the idea of a cooler night to catch up. “Good luck sleeping in the rural silence,” I joked, as we said our goodnights. How we laughed.

Then the music started. Well, I say “music”; it was a relentless 130bpm thumping charmless invariable drum/bass noise.

Relentless. On and on and on. Piercing every window of this hilltop farmhouse. And coming from not far away.

It’s young people having a much-deserved good time, I decided. Mustn’t be a grinch. It won’t be on for long – not at that volume, surely.

Waking nightmare

At 11.30, I got up, and watched the Lions/Springboks highlights. Well, I call them “highlights”, but it was actually 21 minutes of rugby (featuring someone who confuses shouting with commentating) and 30 minutes of vacuous pundits – more pundits than players on the pitch.

But the beat was still relentless. After another fruitless hour in bed, I was back in front of the TV, hunting for some quality Olympic sport.

What I found was “street skateboarding” or some such nonsense. I endured that for a bit, and then tried bed again. But the beat went on.

Next stop, the computer, and the Claas YouTube channel, for some Tucano instruction videos. I may not have the combine yet, but that’s no reason not to do homework.

Shortly after that, it went quiet. I was off to bed faster than you could say “space rocket duvet cover”. It was a cruel trick; the music started up again just as I dozed off, and we were back to square one.

When it started to get light, I gave up, got up, made some porridge and resigned myself to a wiped-out day after no sleep.

Still, mustn’t be a sourpuss. There’s nothing to combine, I now know about Tucano grease nipples, what mongo-foot is, that rugby is a “game of two halves”, and I’ve got the next column done early. How good is that?

(Postscript: Music stopped at 5.22am.)