Will’s World: Dodgy knees inspire a cunning plan
© Lee Boswell Photography I’ve heard people in farming circles debating the age when you stop being considered young.
Many argue persuasively that it’s 40, while others maintain that in an industry like ours, at 40 you’re still a mere stripling and shouldn’t even be entrusted with the farm chequebook.
My theory is that you can tell conclusively by how someone exits a tractor cab.
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Facing forwards, very likely with a phone in the hand, and jumping lightly from the steps without a care in the world, means you’re young.
Facing backwards whilst holding onto the handle, carefully placing your feet on each step, and finally the ground, means you’re not.
I once took great pride in being in the former category. Steps? Who needs steps? I’d leap extravagantly from cabs onto concrete, rejoicing in my Spider-Man-like prowess.
I didn’t bother opening gates to walk through them, I energetically vaulted over, basking in my gymnastic ability.
Did I listen to the old man when he advised me to kneel on a pad while working on machinery or I’d regret it when I was older?
Of course not. I laughed disdainfully at the thought of ever being old in the first place, let alone entertaining the idea of having bad knees.
Paternal schadenfreude
Well, I’m not laughing anymore. At the moment it’s a toss-up as to what’s causing me the most pain and distress: my aching knees or paying nearly £1/litre for red diesel.
Not to mention having to admit that the old man was right all along.
I’m sure I can see him barely suppressing a smug smile whenever I get a kneepad from the workshop.
I don’t suppose a lifetime spent wearing cheap wellies and walking on concrete yards has helped much, either, let alone the near-constant damp climate that North Wales is known for.
I’ve heard tell that people’s knees can ache when it’s going to rain, driven by falling barometric pressure, but that can’t be the case round here or we’d all be permanently hobbling.
It seems to me there’s a gap in the market for some sort of cross between wellies and trainers, and perhaps I’ll patent the idea. Trellies? No, Wainers! They’ll have thick, bouncy soles, fit feet snugly, be fully waterproof, and provide durability and toughness.
Pitch perfect
Should I go on Dragons’ Den and pitch the idea? I can picture it now – me limping onto the stage in front of the panel of judges, then dramatically pulling on a shiny pair of Wainers and being magically cured.
Yes please, Peter Jones, I will accept £1m for a 5% stake in my company.
Or perhaps I’ll just bung a few farming social media influencers some pairs and ask them to promote them.
That lot will do or say anything for a freebie, and it’ll appeal to the youngsters on Tikkity-Tok, or whatever it’s called.
Then I can just sit back, rest my aching knees and watch the money pour in.
But back in the real world, I am being proactive. The present Mrs Evans is a proponent of yoga and has suggested on more than one occasion that I give it a go.
The trouble is, I can’t take it seriously and get the giggles whenever the instructor mentions “downward dog” or the like.
It’s a wonder that with advances in medical science, they can’t just fit some grease nipples and I could get by that way.
For now, though, I’ll just have to manage with lashings of Deep Heat, hot baths and the middle-aged farmer’s best friend, ibuprofen.
