1800 Hours

Two things you should know before you read this:

1. Tractors are serviced depending on the number of hours they’ve worked, not how many miles they’ve travelled. It makes sense when you think about it. 
2. Dating a farmer means redefining dates. Between April and October we often have what we call Tractor Dates. 

Last May, we were on quite a straightforward Tractor Date on the farm. Since it was at home, there had been no complicated instructions involving the number of cattle grids to cross before getting to the right farm. And no broad window of when he might be finished the field next to the road so that I could hop in and join him. 

I have a pretty short memory when invited on Tractor Dates. I say, “yes!” immediately, having already forgotten that it involves him sitting in an armchair with its own suspension and me sitting on a moulded stool while holding on to a rail above my head as we go over bumpy ground or he changes direction without warning. We shout at each other over the noise of the engine and I hold my breath while he does anything involving machinery and blades (I’d rather not know). 

So, as usual I’d said yes with enthusiasm and we set off to a small field on the other side of the main road. I think we were spreading fertiliser although I can’t be entirely sure. It was the first Tractor Date we’d had in his new tractor (after he’d had a terrifying accident in the old one) so I was looking around at the strange warning stickers. (How many farmers had put their baby on the moulded stool before the manufacturers included a helpful sticker telling them not to?!). 

If I’d known the ribbing I would get every time we went out for the following six months ever I might have kept my mouth shut for the next two minutes. I’ve never been very good at editing my mouth at the speed my brain is rambling, though. 

“That’s a bit stupid,” said I, with a slightly mocking tone. “this sticker tells you what time the next service is but not the date.”

“What do you mean?” Ivie asked, distractedly, as he checked the trailer attached to the back of the tractor.  

“Look! It tells you it’s at six o’clock but not what date,” I replied, with a slightly more mocking tone, a definite case of rolling my eyes out loud. 

“It’s 1800 hours as in the tractor’s been running for 1800 hours. Not six o’clock in the evening!” 

“Don’t tell anyone you’re related to. And don’t tell any farmers!” I warned as I jumped down from the tractor and huffed my way back to the cottage. 

The following month, Ivie’s brother had a birthday party. We’d only been together about six or seven months and I hadn’t met most of the people that would be there. I was pretty nervous as there would be members of Ivie’s family there, including various cousins and their families. I was keen to make a good impression, not get too drunk, that kind of thing. 

I steeled myself and walked down to the big house where there was already a small crowd of people who’ve known each other since before they could walk. I recognised a couple of friendly faces from a Burns Supper a few months before and wandered across via the gin. 

“Hey Blondie!” this voice shouted from across the garden, “I hear you’re pretty good with a 24-hour clock!” There was a guffaw that suggested that Ivie had told both people he was related to and farmers (which in a lot of cases is the same thing). The only thing for it was to keep wandering via the gin.