Cleaner, Much.

Well I realise a post about dog poo isn't really appropriate for a family run blog so I decided to add another post onto today's reading.  So, what have I done so far.  Been to the Co-op, had a row with my other half and sat in a sulk for an hour because we had no hot water.  Does anyone want to buy an Aga?  I'm sick of it to tell you the truth, and would very happily rip it out and replace it with a nice comfy sofa.  You see the Aga usually heats the water as well as being used as a cooker.  Ha, what a laugh.  For forty-odd years the Aga has indeed heated the water but in the last twelve months it has over-heated the water and caused it to bubble in the tank which means we get scalding water out of the taps, at a temperature over which Health & Safety would be proud to fill out a stream of paperwork.  So we turned it off.  Got the plumber in to assess the problem and came to the conclusion that we would start using the immersion heater to heat the water and just use the Aga to cook.  But there is a switch on the immersion heater that has a mind of its own and keeps turning itself on and off.

Since last Sunday we have had no hot water.  Amy can't have her evening bath and I can't wash up in hot water.  And the Farmer has ignored the problem, thinking he can fix it himself.  Worried about plumber's bills I expect, not to mention his pride, his lapsidaisical attitude has really got my goat today.  I rang the plumber myself and I will ring him again later just to make sure he got my message.  I'm sick of the damn thing.  Apparently, Aga's last for years, many more years than the forty-odd it has currently been installed in our kitchen.  And to make matters worse, my mum is coming later and will no doubt want a bath tonight.  Good job the shower's electric.

Never A Stranger Meets

Have you ever had that feeling that you know someone better than you thought you did?  Or have you ever met someone for the first time and thought, "haven't we met before?" Then again, have you ever discovered a friendship that you had no idea existed, yet when you meet you realise that the friendship did exist all along and your meeting wasn't just a coincidence?

As you know, I don't believe in coincidences.  My beliefs may seem a little odd to some, but to me they are normal; for I believe that our lives were mapped out for us before we were born and life, as wonderful as it is, takes us along many paths, some twisty, some turny, but all leading to the straight and narrow.  Okay, let me tell you what I'm bashing on about.  Today I met someone; a beautiful lady of whom I was one day destined to meet.   I first met her online, she became a blogging buddy some time ago and I felt mysteriously privileged to be a part of her online community.  She blogs as A Mid-Atlantic English, or Michelloui, and she's truly special.  We got on from the start, having various things in common, but it was when we realised her daughter who is currently staying with grandparents in the area, was a helper at the riding stables where Amy spent three days last week, not to mention the Farmer knows her ex-father-in-law very well, and not to mention we have mutual acquaintances, friends and shared thoughts, that things started coming together.  To call our blogging friendship a coincidence would have been wrong , for it was as though we had known each other for many years.

She stayed for a few hours and I genuinely didn't want her to leave.  It was like meeting a long lost friend, one of those from a past life, one I was meant to meet.  I took her for a walk into the fields where she stood in awe at the scenery, and we took photographs.  The whole three hours felt surreal, yet comforting as I chatted to her with overwhelming closeness.  She's American so I'll say, "thanks, honey, for making my day so special."

The Other Man in my Life

I have written so much about my Dad, he is someone I could continue to write about and always have something else to tell you.  But today, Sunday 25th July, is the anniversary of his passing.  It happened nine years ago and is still so incredibly vivid in my mind.  I wonder if he can share himself around his family today, for we all want him to be with us, and maybe we will all think of him at the same time.  I will visit his tree later, the one the Farmer and I planted on the farm in his memory.  It looks towards the farm house as though guarding its treasure, swaying towards the holiday cottage in which he spent so many relaxing visits. 

I will always feel sad when I think of him not being here anymore, unable to walk through my back door and hold out his arms for a hug.  But I have so often sat in the lounge or been at my desk, reading on my bed or cooking supper, walking around the house, pottering as I so often do, when I know he is with me; experiencing his familiar aroma or saying to myself, "Mind how you go," which were always his parting words.  I'll never get over his passing for his life is permanently etched in my heart, but this morning I smiled for the first 25th July in nine years when I thought about the man who was, and still is, always here for me.

Friends on Tap

I remember the summer holidays when I was a child, those long lazy days of sunshine and play, the occasional shopping trip and a visit to a long lost auntie. I grew up on the outskirts of a town, houses everywhere, people standing at bus stops and children tearing along pavements on bikes, never a helmet in sight. We lived in a small cul-de-sac, just big enough to have a game of tennis or a test match as Ian Botham was all the rage. September used to come around all too quickly as new shoes were bought together with an A-line skirt. I try to keep up with some of the tradition being a mum myself now, but Amy simply won't wear an A-line skirt. She doesn't have as many friends as I had back then, but saying that, she has more than I do now. No tissues required, I'm somewhat of a loner.

Times change as we get older, naturally through progress and particularly, in my generation, through technology. The first time I used a computer was when I was 15 and I know some might say I was lucky. Amy was only 5 when she had her first computing experience; I always remember her teacher telling me she was struggling with the co-ordination of the mouse, and I walked away shaking my head at the fact that Amy was only 5 at the time, and was expected to be able to use such a technical instrument. Of course, during my summer holidays, I didn't have access to a computer at home even though my mum had a typewriter of which she let me use. This year's summer holiday will be a little different to past ones with me being unable to drive; apart from being taken for a few days to my mum's in Manchester, we won't be going very far. But just being a part of the farm is a wonder in itself. I sometimes ache for friends and a cul-de-sac for Amy, but this is what she's grown up with, the countryside, the animals, the farm, and of course, a computer.

Carer's Allowance Possibilities

Some of you may recall last November that I had the unfortunate run in with my carer's allowance where I was ordered to pay back £1,300 after wrongly claiming it for the previous seven months or so.  I was naturally fuming at their decision to withdraw my allowance leaving me £53 a week worse off.  I felt like a benefit cheat and was utterly devastated about it.  Yesterday we had our annual meeting with the accountant who informed us of the dire situation of farming and the fact that my annual salary has once again decreased, and he strongly advised me to get back on to the carer's allowance folk and get my allowance reinstated.  Of which I have now done.  The decision will no doubt take a week or two to be made but there is a good chance I could once more claim carer's allowance, thus helping with the worst year we have experienced in farming, according to the Farmer and his many years in the trade.

What made us laugh, in a disgusted kind of way, not the "ha ha" way I would prefer, was that I was made to pay back money (at Christmas time) because I was earning £1 more than the allowance allowed, and they back dated that seven months.  But, stay with me here, the lower income I am now earning started from May 2009, accounts from that date to end April 2010 which means I was actually entitled to carer's allowance from May 2009.  However, they are saying they will only backdate my claim three months from today's date, which means the robbing buffoons aren't prepared to pay me anything for those twelve months between May 2009 and April 2010.  So I've missed out.  Oh what fun.  I have to say, without sounding too blase, that I'll just be grateful if they do reinstate the allowance because I know, the accountant knows and they know, that I am entitled to it.  But I won't be giving up without a fight.  Let's see, if they were to backdate it to May 2009, I'll be looking at a windfall of around £3,000.  Who needs Lottery tickets anyway.  Watch this space.

Quick Rant; Red Tape & Pens

I sometimes wonder what planet our rule makers, pen pushers and red tape lovers are on.  Being a business we have to go through the usual checks and inspections, every year, just to make sure we are, for example,  not worming the dog and forgetting to note it down or selling more bales than we have actually made a note of.  All paperwork, jobs for the boys, red tape shite, you know, administration that really doesn't need to see the light of day.  There are various schemes we are a part of, not just to secure some extra dosh from the greedy government, but in some cases to help the environment and play fair with English Heritage, whose rules and regs are often so made up one could write a Monty Python in its honour.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Trading Standards need to see us.  It's just formality and a load of bullshit, but they have boxes to tick and spreadsheets to complete, not to mention some woman who wants a ride out.  Maybe one day, these people in authority, you know, the ones whose wet dreams consist of red tape and annoying farmers, will actually learn about the farming calendar, and realise when harvest falls, when the lambing takes place, and the fact that farmers don't have a straight forward 9-5 job when they can drop everything and push a pen around a form for two hours, meanwhile listening to screaming hungry lambs and watching ripened crops pass their best.  Rant over.  For another year.

Lotto Time

Some people get excited if they've just booked a holiday.  Some get excited if they're on their way.  Some people get excited if they're having a baby.  Some get excited if they've passed their exams, got a new job, are getting married, have found a pound or won the lottery.

Today, I got excited when I walked out of my doctor's surgery with my new medication in my hands; in fact, I felt like doing one of those little jumps in the air, where my ankles knock together and my voice emits a very loud, "yippee!".  Tonight, I will start taking my new meds.  It will take four months to wean me off my old meds and wean me onto my new.  I felt like I had the winning lottery ticket in my hands, on a rollover night.

Just one question that continues to faze me; why do men always scratch their balls in public?  How offending it would seem if I walked down the road scratching my nether regions whilst talking to someone on my mobile phone.

Middle of the Road

So quickly does a year pass, so often with memories.  I fail to remember what I was doing yesterday, yet last years recollections vividly grace my mind as birds return and crop once more awaits its fate.  The Farmer has an expanded waistline, his belt somewhat troubled as another hole becomes worn, yet he assures me middle-age spread has set in and a mid-life crisis is now the focus of his once placid take on a country life.

I'll give him bloody mid-life crisis.

He's 60.  Isn't he a little too old for a mid-life crisis?  Shouldn't he have gone through that at 50, or even in his 40's?  Or am I barking up the wrong tree?  Let's face it, he was 51 when we got together; labelled the dark horse of the district as he shacked up with a woman 20 years his junior.  And gorgeous.  Of course.  He wants to change his car for something a little more sporty, he's started wearing body spray, and he has more showers than he used to.  Unfortunately, his dress sense still leaves a lot to be desired but I let him off on that score due to him being a farmer.  I do love him, just as he is.  I wonder what will happen to me when I'm going through my mid-life crisis.  Do women go through mid-life crisis's?  I've been thinking of treating myself to an iPhone recently, but then again, there's now't wrong with the phone I've got.

Relief of a Silly Bugger

It's been a very long week.  The last seven days have been somewhat of a strain as I have worried myself sick over my health.  What's she going on about now? I hear you ask.  Something I've been wanting to share with you for some time but have been unable to find the right words to make it sound, how can I say this, a walk in the park.  As you know, I've been having a few issues with my epilepsy recently, issues that have stripped me of my driving licence and a lot of my independence, not to mention the happy go lucky attitude I have always enjoyed.  Being unable to wait for the NHS to make up its mind about giving me an appointment, I decided to throw caution (and money) to the wind and go private.  How glad I am that I did.  Last Friday was my initial appointment with the consultant, a lovely man, knowledgeable and helpful, determined to get to the bottom of my sudden seizures.  I was booked in for an MRI head scan and an ECG, all within a matter of days.  I have hardly slept all week, lost my appetite (probably not a bad thing) and worried that my results would result in something far more sinister than I could possible cope with.

The lovely nurse at the hospital where I had the MRI scan removed the cage-like contraption first when I told her how incredibly claustrophobic I am.  It was just like lying in a tunnel with a few very loud noises to keep me company.  It didn't hurt and wasn't half as bad as I imagined, having kept myself up most of the previous night with worry. The only part of it that was uncomfortable however, was the gown I had to wear with only a pair of knickers underneath, and I hadn't shaved my legs. The ECG made me think of the electric chair, without the priest.  My hair was gooey afterwards but another lovely nurse comforted me and made me realise that having tests wasn't so bad after all.  But then, on Friday afternoon, came the results.

I wasn't sure I could get through the morning without at least a prayer or two; and I didn't.  I've never prayed so much in all my life.  The picture of Amy on the fireplace kept me strong; I asked that I be spared in order to look after my girl and see her grow into the beautiful young woman I imagine.  The consultant called me into his office, his hand shake and smile telling me very little in my uncertainty.  The Farmer and I sat next to each other, opposite the consultant, watching as he went over his notes and recollected our meeting the previous Friday.  "So, the results," he began, as I clenched my hands, perhaps an obvious horror telling in my eyes.  "The MRI was absolutely normal," he said, as he looked at me and smiled, watching my tears stream with relief.  "The ECG shows an impressive photo sensitive epilepsy but we knew that already.  I am changing your medication because the one you are currently on isn't the correct one for this type of epilepsy."  He went on to talk about it being heightened at those crappy hormonal times, you know, the ones where we ladies call, 'time of the month' and told me that I could be sensitive to the computer and it might be an idea to wear dark glasses when using it.  So here I am, sat looking at you with my sunglasses on.  Probably looking like a complete prat, but who cares?  At least I'm still here.

Springing to Life

I've read books, watched the television, pottered about the house and even baked a cake.  Apart from feeling depressed, pissed off and thoroughly drained, the sun has shone and the barley has grown, and I need to write, anything, everything, something.  The Time Team gang have decorated our land with their tools, whilst the more famous amongst them including Tony Robinson, have graced Bamburgh Castle (above) in order to find those long lost remains.  The Farmer is quite excited.  I told him to take a shower.

I guess the big news in my life is that Amy has this dream of going to boarding school.  Don't get me wrong, she loves her current mainstream school, it's a wonderful environment for a child with special needs, but I worry about her future.  I know I said I wouldn't, I have always been one of those mums who takes the here and now as it comes and the future when it comes, but we're already approaching the end of her first year at middle school.  My idea would be for her to start boarding school when she's 13; her idea is to start when she can.  I think the whole idea of fantasy and friendly dorms has started to fill her head with freedom and perhaps some much needed independence.  But it's on the cards.  And I don't think she understands the enormity of such a step, even though somehow, I know she will most probably enjoy it.  Life's full of decisions isn't it.  It's also full of dilemmas, some of which I'd rather not face.

Poppy Love

I got dressed today in what I believed to be clean clothes.  Within an hour I found a stain on my top and something looking far too much like oil smothering my jeans.  It goes without saying that the dogs take great pleasure in soiling my clean clothes; I'm sure they say to each other, "here she comes, get ready to pounce".  When four dogs pounce, one hasn't a cat in hells chance of staying upright, or indeed clean.  And when four dogs bark as loud as they do, it's a good warning that someone may have knocked on the door, or might be walking about outside.

We still have the archaeologists here, digging deep, scraping and brushing, looking for that treasure I'm sure they'll never find.  They have discovered a few building remains, they reckon from hundreds of years ago, probably really interesting to them.  I must go and have a look one of these days, the Farmer reckons they're fascinating.  He took the dogs with him yesterday, all of which went down a storm with the students.  I suspect they didn't get much work done whilst Bonnie bounced her way around the thirteenth century and Meggie sniffed out some outhouse remains.

Manhunt in Tranquility

It's incredible really, our quiet county of Northumberland surrounded by countryside and remote farms, having been turned upside down by a man who has obviously taken a wrong turning in life only to find himself with nowhere to go.  He's hurt, he's frightened and he's on the run.  But for some reason, he has lost his footing and decided to start threatening innocent people, those who have no grudge but just a job to do, and a duty to protect others.  Police cars are everywhere, yet there's never one about when you want one.  My feelings towards the gun laws in this country may differ somewhat to those of my husband, but even I do not know how to use one, nor do I have access to where my husband keeps his.  The manhunt goes on; the police were supposedly closing in on him yesterday, yet here we are, another afternoon and still the fugitive hides.

Or does he.  I can't help thinking he is far away by now, said goodbye to Rothbury and laughing at the foot patrols as they continue their search of an area containing too many nooks and crannies to count.  He could be in someones caravan or in a deserted holiday cottage, perhaps sleeping rough in a field or maybe under a railway bridge.  His beautiful children may worry, but the locals fear for their lives.  His grievances were personal, yet thousands of people remain vigilant, hoping another life won't be taken in the heat of gun fire.

The Colour of Gold

Do you ever feel as though you are just existing?  Living your life day to day, wondering what will happen next, if anything at all, feeling there has to be more to life than this, and asking yourself where the last several years have disappeared to and why you have little to show for them?  Do you ever think you can be doing more to help others; that there are so many wonderful things to learn and you need to find something to make sense of what life is all about?  Do you give to charity, knowing you are helping others who are so less fortunate than yourself?

It's a lot of questions I know, but there have been times, not just recently, but during the last few years too, that I have asked myself what else can I do.  I'm a farmer by occupation, yet I rarely farm; I'm a writer in practice, yet I've never had a book launched; I'm a mother and a wife, a daughter, a sister and a niece, yet there are too many times when I sit alone, wondering, thinking, asking.  I live in a beautiful house in a beautiful part of the country, surrounded by everything I could ever have wanted; and now I feel as though I could offer some of my dreams to those whose dreams never come true.  Autism is a good place to start, it's probably the biggest part of my life.  Giving a little support to those who need it more than I do has to be a good thing.  Autism will always be the top of my list.  But with all the hundreds of charities about today, and all the good causes to which we feel we can help, how do you choose the one for you?  Does your window become frosted as you glare towards the rainbow of opportunity? 

Proud Mum

Got a lovely surprise on Friday via the postman.  Young Writers (www.youngwriters.co.uk) sent me a letter to inform me that a poem written by Amy has been chosen to appear in their latest book of poetry.  It was a project undertaken by the school and only a handful of children got through.  I can't tell you how proud I feel right now of my very talented daughter.  As you know she has a blog on which she writes her own made-up stories so this is just another string in the bow of successful writing achievements. 


My mum and her partner have been to stay over the weekend and we have had a thoroughly enjoyable time.  I haven't seen my mum since Easter so a get together was well over due.  Fortunately, I don't have to wait long until the next visit as she's coming back again on the 29th July for a long weekend, after which she will take Amy and me back to Manchester for a few days.  Of course the harvest will be upon us by then so the Farmer and I will be our usual ships passing at whatever time of day the combine breaks down; I know, I sound terribly pessimistic, but it happens every year and as we haven't got a hundred grand going spare we can't afford to change it.

I haven't got a huge amount left to edit in the book now, so I am hoping, all being well, that come the new term in September I'll be seriously looking for an agent.  If you know of anyone, please don't hesitate to get in touch!!  Here's a snippet for you, taken from a diary entry written by a previous occupant of Rosehill: "I went to see Abigail yesterday evening.  She answered the door looking more beautiful than I have ever seen her.  I noticed the bump, our child growing inside her remarkably tiny frame.  I wanted to hold her as soon as she looked at me but I stood back, unsure as to why she seemed displeased to see me.  I asked if I could go inside and she agreed, saying not for long.  We stood in the hallway, unable to find the right words to break the ice.  I told her I loved her.  She told me I had to leave.  I was heartbroken, but I did leave.  Rosehill felt cold upon my return and I drank myself to sleep, devastated, and perhaps a little angry."

CJ xx

Difficult Times

It feels like a long time since I sat here and wrote a blog post and it's very unlike me to neglect the one thing I love to do, but the truth is, I've been rather poorly.  It started on Monday morning when once more I experienced an epileptic seizure, leaving me disorientated for the rest of the day.  I was overwhelmed by confusion until Tuesday afternoon when I started to feel a little better and was able to spend some time with Amy.  I have an appointment to see a private consultant next Friday which I hope will help, but the doctor and I are almost sure it is hormone related.  Not to sound too personal, the funny turns are happening a few days after my period and that has been the case for the past six months.  There are various options including hormone treatment but I'll wait and see what the consultant has to say next week.  In the meantime, bear with me, I'm still here but am limiting my time on the computer.  Your support is, as always, appreciated.

CJ xx