Lights Out

After all my moaning recently about the farmer feeling fruity, I discovered that he had actually had quite a tough Friday. As you know, because I have mentioned it once or twice, the farmer adores his sheep. Particularly his ewes. He finds it hard when one of them takes ill and it becomes obvious there is no hope for improvement. One poorly ewe lay in the shed on Thursday, looking very sorry for herself, milking the strokes and cuddles the farmer kept on giving. Anna too, tried her best to console the sick sheep who was too weak to stand.


On Friday, the farmer had to make the agonising decision to have the ewe destroyed. Unable to go through with it himself, he brought someone in to do the gruelling task. And the farmer turned away, walked in the opposite direction and shed a tear. He is a sensitive farmer and that is only one of the many reasons why I married him.

*************

We have security lights outside the house, fixed onto the wall. Three in total, two of which no longer work. Probably just a new bulb needed, and a brave ladder climber. The one which is working is located at the front of the property. It has not worked for over twelve months. Since my late father-in-law moved out to be precise. When we had the lights fitted, this particular one was hardly ever used. Reason: Jim (bedroom located at the front, now my office) never closed his curtains and every time the light came on he complained that it disturbed him. "We don't need lights on outside at night," were his exact words. I can hear him say them now. The whole object of the security lights was to enable us to see what we were doing when outside, at night. The light was therefore switched off and never used. However, when Jim moved out I switched the light back on. It worked for about two months then decided to give up, just when we needed it most during the lambing last year.

Over the course of the last twelve months we have switched it on many times only to conclude that it refuses to light our path. Then last week, just as this season's lambing was getting under way, 'Voila', we have light. No one has changed the bulb and no one has touched the light in any way. It is all rather mysterious, yet it feels rather comforting at the same time. Jim's favourite time of year was the lambing season. When he moved to spend his final weeks in the nursing home he constantly asked about the lambs. In his mind, he saw the ewes with their lambs in hot pursuit, parading up and down the corridors. When an old man had spent eighty-two years living on a farm, eating, breathing and dreaming of his beloved stock, it is not surprising that he now returns to do what he can to help. He knew only one life; and even though he was a cantankerous old bugger, he was happy.

The year before he moved off the farm, he insisted he was able to manage assisting the farmer with the lambing duties. He was eighty-one. His cheeks were always rosy and his determination continued right to the end. The farmer was lucky if he got two hours sleep in twenty-four due to Jim's inability to do the task in hand. But between them, they carried on. I helped when I could, which usually consisted of making a flask of tea and a plate of sandwiches. That was all Jim would allow me to do. He refused my help because he felt it would have been seen by others as him throwing the towel in. I do not know if my farmer will still be lambing when he is eighty-one, but I sure hope he is well enough.

It Takes Two

Late nights do not agree with me. I am a bear with a sore head today, in danger of stealing all the honey. My husband and I are currently ships that pass whenever the opportunity arises and it now seems he has decided we need another child. A son would be nice, to take over the farm. His words. I will not share mine. Should men give birth I would be happy to consider it. Should men give up their jobs, their ambitions, their beauty sleep, I would maybe think about it. My rose tinted glasses have once more slipped. And landed in a jar of honey.

Farms are grumpy places at this time of year. Only those who enjoy watching frolicking lambs exploring new territory will smile. I think the continuous new life has got the better of the farmer, he starts to feel broody and thinks about the patter of tiny hooves. I would only think about dirty nappies and sick, crying in the night and screaming in the day. My maternal instinct did not stretch and I was lucky to have my mum at hand. Now I am on my own. My mum is too far away and my life has gone way past Pampers and SMA.

Anna has offered to look after the farm for us when we are at a quieter time of year. We could go away for a weekend, take the car to Scotland and find a quiet paradise. Perhaps my mum will come too.

God Bless Treate

Treate joined his mummy during the night. Her calls were too tempting for him to ignore. He is now at peace, smiling down on his best friend Amy, thanking her for loving him.

Amy's last words before falling asleep last night were, "when I feed Treate tomorrow, I hope he licks my chin like he did today." I do believe her wish came true as he licked away her tears earlier and reassured her that he is now where he belongs, back with his mummy.

Life goes on at Jigsaw Farm.

Tough Living

Potential bad news: Treate is sick. We haven't told Amy yet because we are not sure if he will take to his medication. A few prayers tonight will be needed and preferably answered in order for him to survive. The next 48 hours will be critical to determine his health. That is, if he lasts that long. Things like this happen, particularly with lambs that have been born to a weak mother; Treate's mother passed away when he was only a few hours old. The poor little mite was taking milk greedily from my fair hands only last night and today he has taken only a couple of ounces, reluctantly.

It is without doubt, there will be other lambs to feed and maybe even another orphan but I know Amy will be mortified if Treate does not survive. Heaven is becoming a crowded place in Amy's mind. But at least it is a place of laughter and peace.

Crystal xx

Hats off

Despite the worst Easter weather in (I think I heard it was) 25 years, we have made an improvement on the lambing. Coming thick and fast, healthy and strong, we can report our lambing season has well and truly started. Our assistant, Anna, has proved to be a great support and has fit into life on Jigsaw farm perfectly. Hardworking and eager to get her hands dirty she works alongside the farmer, before coming in for coffee and a keen raid of my biscuit tin. The snow storms have been the worst conditions for the season and we are constantly worrying about finding dead lambs in the fields. We usually bring the ewes in at 5pm but the weather is dictating otherwise. It can be quite difficult to see new born lambs in the fields when there is snow lying. Having to work outside in exposed conditions is causing extreme fatigue to the farmer, who is not getting any younger (don't tell him I said that).




Mum has spent a comfortable few nights in the guest room quite unaware of the activity from my Lady on the stairs. I suspect my Lady welcomes mum into our home, quite considerate to this hectic period. I sat on the stairs recently, waiting for Amy to get dressed when my Lady rushed passed me in her usual hurry to ascend to the top. Smiling politely as she brushed against my arm, she announced my name with true decorum, leaving the aroma of beef stew in her path. I have yet to work out why beef stew is so strong near the bottom of our stairs; the only explanation I believe could be correct is down to the original "living room" having once housed the range and being at this side of the house. The room is now used for storage waiting patiently to be renovated into a second drawing room. I look forward to the day this will happen for I expect the secrets of the walls will reveal themselves in high exuberance.



I keep asking my spirit friends to stop the snow storms but even they have no control over this atrocious weather. Having Amy at home during the Easter weekend has been a pleasure. She so enjoys the lambing and has completely taken to her pet lamb, Treate, with an E on the end. Our only problem is that Treate is a boy. If we were planning to keep any lambs they would be girls. Boy lambs are, I am sorry to say, destined for one place. Personally, I don't eat lamb.

Two extra pints today please

Meet Taylor and Tyler. Born Thursday. A little weak but with a fighting spirit. Mum doing fine.

Not such a happy story for our first lambs however. Triplets born a little earlier, two of which were still-born. I am afraid the one remaining lamb is now an orphan. We were very sad but such is life, a farmers' at that. It is times like those that I wish we didn't have sheep and would concentrate more on the arable. Maybe one day. But for now, we have 230 ewes still to lamb.

The weather is not being kind, a total contrast to last year when the sun shone and the days were a pleasure to wake up to. I could barely stand up this morning when taking milk down to the orphan lamb of which Amy has personally named "Treat".

My mum arrived laden with bags, fortunately not full of veggies. And yes, she brought the Easter Eggs. Two huge chocolate orange eggs and not for sharing because "they're mine".

How's the weather?

Just a few days now before we expect the first lambs to be born. The farmer is getting quite excited, if not a little bit anxious. He spends most of his time in the shed, preparing it for the heavily pregnant ewes who are currently quite happy lying down, chewing cud and watching the world go by before all hell breaks loose. Having given birth myself I have to sympathise with the poor creatures. I remember so well the discomfort in those last few weeks. If only they knew about epidurals and gas and air.






My mum is due to arrive tomorrow night with her friend, Antony. I haven't mentioned the atrocious weather forecast for the weekend just in case they change their mind. My mum is one of those people who virtually lives by the weather. If it is raining, she stays indoors. If it is cold, she stays indoors. If the sun shines, she puts her heating on just in case a naughty cloud decides to cover it. She likes to be warm. Living in Northumberland is her idea of living in the Antarctic. I wonder if she knows we have been forecast arctic blasts for this weekend.





We had one of those conversations before about food. I get the feeling the thinks we don't eat on the farm, unless a stray lamb chop falls in our lap. "What should I bring?" she asks. "Nothing, we have plenty of food," I reply. "I have a chicken joint, I shall bring that." I managed to talk her into bringing a bottle of Volvic and a packet of Eccles Cakes. I have no doubt she will turn up with bags of food. So long as she remembers the Easter Eggs.

Let's make a difference

When I was a little girl I used to spend hours playing in my bedroom on my own. My favourite game was pretending I was a teacher. I would write a list of names on a piece of paper and tick each one off as I called out the make-believe name. You can imagine my joy yesterday when I heard Amy doing exactly the same thing in her own bedroom. It was history repeating itself. I wanted to go into her room, fling my arms around her and eat her up with the biggest bottle of tomato sauce I could find. Instead I left her to play. I remembered how frustrating it was when my mum used to "barge" in on private play, wondering what I was up to. And I realised that her mother probably did the same to her.


Amy has a wonderful imagination. When she was first diagnosed with autism I was told, by a professional, that she would struggle to form any kind of imaginative play and would need constant assistance in this particular area. How wrong they were. I sat in the little office, opposite a very respected doctor listening to her reminding me how difficult life would be, how much help and support I would need to call upon. What she failed to tell me was what an amazing child I had before me; of an incredible little girl who of course would need help and support as every child does, but would need her independence in order to flourish. Someone continuously stating that imaginative play would be Amy's main area of difficulty was destined to hold her back. Even though Amy's imagination has shown no bounds, I still fail to see where the constant assistance would have been sought, apart from at school. What the professional also failed to tell me was how often I would hear the word 'funding' and how often it would be used as an excuse for lack of support. A life is priceless.



I will never hold Amy back. Because of her autism I will worry about any decisions she may make which I feel will affect her in a negative way but I will support her when she makes mistakes. But that will be her future. The here and now tells me that she has a fantastic ability to undertake imaginative play; she is already showing signs of an independent youth. Rebelling was not a bad thing when it came to listening to Amy's specialist. Parents know their children better than anyone. But we all know that the right support goes a long way. There has to be professional support which will allow a person with special needs to have their independence while being offered the opportunity to live in a welcoming society. Amy has excellent support at school. She has no support at home, apart from my own.

The National Autistic Society are currently running a campaign which they have aptly named "I Exist". It is focusing on adults with autism and aspergers who get little or no support and are often isolated from society. Some of the reading is quite shocking, particularly for those parents of children with autism. I like to be optimistic about Amy's future, I want her to be the hairdresser that she so wishes to be; but I just want her to be happy. She currently is. The children are our future, even the autistic ones. I have listed below (taken from the NAS website), a few of the published statistics which I personally found to be in dire need of improvement. Thank you for reading:-

* 63% of adults with autism do not have enough support to meet their needs.

* 60% of parents say that a lack of support has resulted in their son or daughter having higher support needs in the long term.

* A third of adults (33%) say they have experienced severe mental health difficulties because of a lack of support.

* Over 60% of adults with Asperger syndrome or high-functioning autism have struggled to receive support from their local authority and/or health service. Of these, 52% were told that they do not fit easily into mental health or learning disability services.

* 61% of adults rely on their families for financial support and 40% live at home with their parents.

* 92% of parents are worried about their son's or daughter's future when they are no longer able to support them.

Locomotion

It was like going back in time. Not too difficult for this part of the world I know, but as my husband ran indoors for his camera, running upstairs two steps at a time, I realised something was definitely happening that might just be worth me getting excited about too. It wasn't the fact that he had developed a sudden urge to ravage me; that wasn't it at all. Instead I was told to stand at the bathroom window and watch as the steam bellowed along the track above a beautiful steam locomotive steadily exhibiting herself along the railway line. It was like watching The Railway Children standing at the station, transfixed upon lit up carriages and period diners. My husband remembered the steam trains, he was fascinated by them as a child and grew up witnessing the amazing changes which became the trains we have today.


I felt quite emotional as she signalled a weak sound resembling a power failing horn. My husband will talk about seeing the steam train for days, maybe weeks to come. I will have the painstaking responsibility of taking the film to be developed, hoping it has not fallen through a new found hole in my bag or praying that the developer has not lost it. When I have the pictures back I shall let you see what a middle-aged farmer finds so incredibly spectacular. It was a sight for sore eyes, I have to say.

Taxing

I was sat at my desk eating my ham barmcake when I suddenly started thinking about my beloved Land Rover. He sits outside doing no harm to anyone and takes me on amazing journeys up and down the A1. He also serves his purpose on the farm, in and around the fields, rescuing the odd sheep from the burn not to mention watering the Farmer in those scorching harvest months. I have owned "Stormin' Norman" for five and a half years. He has had the usual wear and tear, huge amounts of money spent on him and has been the best car I have ever had.


But he is classed as a "Gas Guzzler". He has been put in Gordon Brown's Band M when the new car tax system comes into force. That means that instead of paying £180 I will have to pay £440 which is more than I pay to insure him. I get very confused when it comes to politics and very unsure about the facts but this just seems to me to be an absolute farce. I wonder if the government will subsidise this ridiculous tax. I wonder if they will introduce some kind of benefit to help those in financial need and those farmers who need working vehicles to carry out their job. Somehow, I cannot imagine pottering around the fields in a Smart Car, beeping my horn at the sheep as they lazily overtake me. Not that I have anything against Smart Cars you understand, but they would be rather impractical in a flooded and mud soaked field waiting for the rich neighbours Land Rover to come and tow them out.


The thing that bothers me about all this new tax system is that public transport does not get any better. Particularly in these rural areas. I cannot speak for the cities of course but here, the nearest bus stop is three miles away. And it runs very rarely. It would be rather inconvenient not to own a car where I live and okay, I admit that at one time, no one owned a car and everyone walked to their destination. However, this is a new age and times have indeed changed. Maybe we ought to revert to horseback. I wonder what we will be taxed on then. Perhaps manure tax? Or maybe hands tax?


Norman is ten years old now and still going strong. Only eighty eight thousand miles on the clock and another hundred still to do. I have been thinking about changing him this year however. And do you know what I shall buy in his place? "Stormin' Norman 2", another Land Rover with a newer engine. It doesn't matter what we drive in this country, the government will always find some excuse to raise taxes. I do my bit for the environment. But I have a job to do. And the way farming has been going recently I need all the help I can get.

The Time of your Life

Life has been quite hectic these past few weeks. I remember the beginning of the year so clearly yet I do not recall January and February having been lived through with such haste. Time goes quicker as you get older. Someone said that to me once and I do believe they were right. There are times when I sit at my desk, intending to do a few hundred words in my novel when before I have lifted my head, the clock has moved forward two hours and the few hundred words have still to be typed. I have always stared life in the face, willing it to show me spontaneous adventure; yet vigilantly looking through the window as the next drama unfolds. I am a fortunate person. I have a loving family and good friends. I have a straight path ahead, yet my life beckons me curiously as I find it impossible not to veer left and right.


As I look into my own future, I see challenges ahead, ones which I will overcome though may cause disruption to harmonious days. I have a bad back. I have suffered with pain in my back for many years and undergo various therapies in order to make me feel more comfortable. My house has recently been a continuous flurry of excitement, all through my own choice. I have thrived on the changes and now stand amidst chaos and upheaval thinking of my next project.


Time goes too quickly. There are not enough hours in each day to complete every last wish. Seven days in a week are never enough when you are on holiday, wanting so much to stay in the relaxed and separated atmosphere that differs from every day life. Would it not be better to live for two hundred years? To see more change than you could ever imagine in two centuries of living beneath influence. If one could only begin to grow old when reaching eighty. Their previous years could be blessed with youth; painted with a desire to live life to the full.


Respect for time will bring rewards beyond your wildest dreams. It will make you understand that we do not have two hundred years to prove our worth. Time has shown me how to embrace life; how to think then do; how to learn then practice. I have often described my own life as that resembling a tape recorder; allowing me to play yet pausing me for breath; recording my best times yet erasing my worst. I have started to live my life now. I have always loved life but now life loves me.

Lost in sentiment

Do you say "I Love You" often enough? What a fabulous question for one to think about. I sat and thought about it myself and knew the answer was "no" even though I would have loved to have immediately said a confident "yes". There are many people of whom I love deeply in this world and several in the next. I tell Amy I love her numerous times a day and she also tells me. I very often have to elaborate on how much I love her. Probably the simplest question I have ever had to answer. "More than anything. Absolutely anything," is my usual reply. Then there is my mum, my brother and my sister and of course their own children. Family is paramount to me. I tell each and every one of them on a regular basis that I love them. I never say goodbye to my mum without saying, "love you," something we have done since my dad passed. I guess it has something to do with the fact that my dad was taken so suddenly and none of us got the chance to say "I love you," before he left.


I tell my dad I love him every day. Two days before he passed, he walked by the window as he set off to take his faithful collie for his evening walk. I stood, holding Amy as she rested her little feet on the sill. He blew us both a kiss. That memory will never leave me. I do this to Amy every night before I close her door, telling her I love her at the same time. And each night I think about my dad's beautiful smile as we watched him in physical form for the last time that Monday evening.


But the person who captured my heart, the man who makes me feel special on a daily basis is of course my husband, the Farmer; the most hardworking, loyal and considerate person I have ever had the pleasure to know. I love him unconditionally. I trust him completely. And I do not tell him that I love him often enough. Whenever I am staying at my mum's, usually once a month, we end our phone conversations with I love you but it isn't often enough. I could tell him I love him every hour of every day. But it would still not be enough.


David McMahon, one of the many bloggers in which I follow on a daily basis, asked his readers this very question. I think no matter how many times we say it, if true love really does exist, you can never say "I love you" enough times.

So how about you? Do you say "I love you" often enough? Or is it just one of those emotions that we automatically take for granted, unaware of how meaningful these three little words really are?

Money well spent??

The tiling was finished yesterday. I wasn't sure at first but now I quite like it. I think I just got used to seeing exposed walls with various measurements written on them. The decorator starts his work on Thursday when once more we will be emptying the room and living on takeaway. He estimates it should be done within a week. I certainly hope so, as Hyacinth Bouquet is coming to stay for Easter, aka my mum. The flooring will go down after the lambing but that shouldn't be a messy job.

My tumble drier blew up last week; another expense. It is all well and good having a washing line positioned on a windy hill but I refuse to hang out my smalls (or bigs as they are vast becoming).

We got one of those cards from the post office yesterday telling us there is a letter waiting to be collected and we have to pay £1.16. What kind of scandal is that? Why the hell should we have to pay a £1.00 handling fee, plus 16p to make up the difference just because whoever sent the letter in the first place did not apply the correct amount of postage. You can pay online or send the card back with the correct postage applied in stamps, or go into the sorting office with a form of identification. Should I choose the latter, that will mean a 32 mile round trip. All I can say is, it had better not be junkmail.

Music in the air

Amy loves to play the piano. She is doing so well with her lessons, bringing the current book home and telling me "this is how you do the left hand bit". Her rhythm is excellent and the speed in which she has picked up the names of each note is quite amazing. It takes me back to when I was her age and I started having piano lessons. I used to go with another girl, a little older than me, to our teacher's house. She had a little bungalow which completely hummed with cats. I think I remember her telling me she had about 20 cats altogether. I very rarely saw them but the smell was proof enough for one to know they certainly did exist. She had a room where she took lessons, an upright piano against one wall and a two tier organ against another. I played them both. I've always been greedy. The organ fascinated me with the foot pedals and having two rows of keys. I had always wanted to have a go on the church organ but was never allowed. This was the next best thing.

From the age of 8, thirty years ago, I have played, loved and respected the piano. I was obsessed with it. I won a competition when I was 10 by playing a piece of music at school that we used to sing regularly in assembly. I played it by ear and got first prize in a musical concert competition. Not that I'm one to blow my own trumpet. But it was a proud moment. And when I was 9 years old, I began learning how to play the violin. I still have my first violin in its original case, lots of strings later and several bridges but I haven't played it for a long time. It might frighten the cat.

There is another musical person in my house but it isn't the Farmer. Someone who has recently started playing Amy's keyboard which she currently has set up in the guest room. She had been playing it the other night, just pottering about, nothing too Beethoven. There are a hundred built-in songs, a sort of demo effect. After half an hour she decided to move onto something else so turned the light off and left the room. I was, as I usually do in the evening, sat at my computer having a browse around blogland. All of a sudden one of Amy's favourite pieces started playing on the keyboard. After reluctantly getting out of my chair I went into the guest room, where the light had been switched on yet the door was still closed. The music continued to play. Amy was in her bedroom, watching Doctor Who's Tardis vanish into thin air. I asked her why she had turned the keyboard on and left it. Her answer was of course that she hadn't. I knew this was the truth because apart from the door making a loud clunking sound when it opens or shuts, I would have seen her dart past the office door and back into her bedroom. And of course I had not. I do wish the mystery pianist would present themselves. We could start up a band.

Sound of the Lambs

With our lambing season just weeks away it goes without saying that the Farmer spends most of his time in a state of excitement, standing at the window with a pair of binoculars. The tups thought they were hard done by yesterday as they were put through the foot-bath before being led in respectful convoy back to their paddock where they while the days away, gazing at the countryside. None of them have a care in the world. One of them has rather large wedding tackle and another struggles on his feet but they have it pretty easy. They cost us an arm to buy, a leg to maintain and then enjoy a few weeks of proving their man-hood in order to give us around 400 lambs between them. I find them quite intimidating to be honest. But they must have some appealing qualities, with an average ratio of 1 tup to every 32 ewes, I guess you could safely say they have established their harem.

There should be currently around 250 pregnant ewes, all waiting around for the maternity ward which consists of several large fields by day and a humongous shed by night. I get the night shift. At least it is under cover, however dark and cold it is. Our lambing season usually lasts for around three weeks. We get the "hangers-on" who frustrate the Farmer to bits and then of course we get the orphaned lambs that will be looked after by me. The main difference between having lambs and new babies is the nappy factor. There hopefully will not be too many orphans; it is particularly sad to lose any of our sheep particularly in lamb-birth. But we do get some ewes who simply do not have enough milk to feed their new-borns which means I have to step in. With a bottle.

Our garden will be converted to a small paddock for ewes with difficulties, i.e. prolapse, low or no milk supply and the ewes who give birth to triplets. It is more common (and a lot more convenient from a farmer's point of view) for a ewe to give birth to twins or singles. A ewe only has two teats so if she gives birth to triplets, one of the lambs is generally weaker than the other two due to their inability to share. From a lucrative angle, it is obviously more financially beneficial for the ewe to have twins. A good set of healthy twins usually puts a smile on the Farmer's face during those few hectic weeks in March and April. As does dry weather and a decent meal.

Welcome to the twenty-first century

They had to move today, in order for us to bring the new table and chairs into the room. Their examination of the kitchen became approval, a flick of the lights told me so. When they started to knock on the table top I felt reassured that we had indeed done the right thing. A quick movement in the corner of my eye disintegrated as energy ran out; overwhelmed by admiration from once questioning souls.

*********

As units were stripped from their ancient bed, dust gathered and spiders retracted to safety. Dogs bewildered, a cat dismayed, three men removed four decades of memories to make way for new life. It was surreal to see a room almost bare, the decaying plaster and neglected walls, a record of family life beyond flesh and mortar. I could sense eyes in abundance, witnessing the demolition, heads shaking at the changes they would have preferred to avoid. Drilling and hammering, aggressive release continued throughout the day as my dream came alive, the room I had waited six years to alter was finally beginning to hold its head up high. No going back; it would only do to go forward, make progress, create something new and exciting, something I had talked about doing for so long.


Plaster was applied to walls. Old sockets were torn from their core; wires were fixed as modern clashed with old. Still so much to do yet confidence high, a nod of the head, no cursing or negative thought, just optimism ensued as workmen saw an end in sight. I sat in my office, trying hard to concentrate on words which found it hard to reach the surface. Workmen up and down the stairs, in and out of the bathroom, laying new wires, problem solving with little problem involved. I was impressed by their efficiency, their constant determination to complete the task in hand; they knew they could do it; I hoped they were right.


As the house lay silent once more, their vans departed in convoy, I stood and realised the fact that within days I would have that new kitchen I had so desired. My eyes continued to catch movement darting from one side of the room to the other, checking, approving, disagreeing. It was at that time that I heard the child. A small voice from the top of the stairs. "Mum." The child whom it should have been played outside, gaily having fun with two excitable dogs. I followed the voice; the stairs were empty, the mirror in a state of unclean. I walked up the first staircase where I stood in front of the looking glass, the grandfather clock to my left. I was disappointed.


The middle of the week introduced us to the joiner, a handsome young man, hard working and knowledgeable. He took little time to assemble base units, with care and precision. I watched a while, fascinated by his skillful touch. He did not mind my presence; he did not know of the others who witnessed his comtempory methods. It would have been different in their day; tools would have been less sophisticated, assembly would have taken twice as long due to no electric drills and a shortage of materials. He was not put off by the arrogance or chit chat; by the leering over his talent or the righteousness which prevailed. I often smiled, returning to my office, contented that our house guests were not causing too much interference.


Nearing the end of the week I could see a drastic change in the room with a view. It was remarkable; incredible; a wonderful feeling to finally be able to visualise this space worthy of time and effort. I wanted to paint the world a message, inviting them to see my new kitchen, informing them of a new birth on a sheep farm in Northumberland. Perhaps that was why my calls were answered. Why, when I asked for my guest to knock, that they did, several times. I did not know exactly how many astrals were present but I imagined it was at least two, maybe three as footsteps became more distinct.


And when I stood at my new ceramic kitchen sink, looking at the distant orange glow from the station lights, I was alerted once more, to a soul with no face; the silence broken in the wake of a repetitive knocking on my new kitchen table. "Do you like it?" I asked after turning round to face the music. The reply: two knocks, knuckle bound on ancient Pine.