Hi De Hi

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Holidays
2. To do lists

I'm really lucky that my workplace closes down for two weeks over the festivities. It had been pretty non-stop in the run-up so I was glad to close down my emails and switch off my work phone on the 22nd and not think about it too much until about now. 

I'm also really lucky that I enjoy my job so I don't have that back to work dread that many people experience at this time of year. A glance at my Facebook memories reminds me that this hasn't always been the case, although I still stand by my status update from 2011:

"...the first week back at work after Christmas should be like the first week of primary school: in till lunchtime then home for a nap and a change into playing clothes."

I had great plans over the holidays with quite an extensive to do list on the go. So far, all I've managed is washing my walking boots and doing a review of my year. (To be fair, I did try phoning HMRC about my tax bill but gave up after 25 minutes on hold, suspecting that my call wasn't quite as important to them as they would have me believe.)

I still find it tricky sometimes that Ivie doesn't have a traditional 9-5 with free weekends, especially when I've got all this time off and we're hurtling towards lambing time. He might be awake in body from time to time but he won't be 100% conscious and engaged or able to hold a conversation beyond lambing stats - number left to lamb, number of triplets, when he last had a full night's sleep, you know the kind of thing.

Luckily, there's a solution to my need for quality time with my significant other away from the ranch. Meet the campervan that we now co-own with our next door neighbours!

We had our first night in it parked up at Sandhead last night. We had a very rock n roll evening, eating home made curry, watching the dog run herself daft on the beach and playing Scrabble. Scrabble is my 'sport' and Ivie plays me once or twice a year to balance out the actual sport he's tried to get me involved in over the years (none successfully, you'll be surprised to hear).

If Old McDonald played Scrabble

I'm looking forward to more mini breaks, getting to know this corner of the world more. Moving to the Spittal just before the first lockdown got in the way of that a bit, although this week alone we've managed a trip to Cruggleton and getting lost at Kirroughtree. I'm just wondering where else we can squeeze in before lambing 2023 gets underway.... (suggestions welcome!). Now that's a to-do list I can get behind. 

Bye, Bye Birdy

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Bravery
2. Lack thereof

I’m not a naturally brave person. In fact, I’d say I’m a naturally feardy person. My idea of taking part in an extreme sport is playing Scrabble outside. It’s hardly adrenaline racing stuff.

Extreme Sport

This week I’ve had to put my big girl pants on a couple of times (to be fair, post-lockdown all my pants are for big girls but you catch my drift).

I’ve been lucky to have a few days off here and there over the last couple of weeks. And there’s nothing I like more than to spend them in my shed reading or writing.

View from the shed

Last Tuesday I took my laptop, the book I was reading and a cuppa to the shed and made myself comfortable. This mainly involved lighting a candle, switching on the fairy lights and settling in under a cosy blanket (all permitted under the heading of ‘I am 48’).

I’d just opened my book (Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason, highly recommended) when there was a fluttering from the wood burner. I ignored it and carried on reading. There was another, louder flutter.

At this point I should mention that I’m not very good with fluttery birds. I have no problem with creepy crawlies and quite happily ignore spiders around the house, letting them get on with whatever it is they do all day after they’ve made the web and had breakfast.

Living with Ivie has made me even less good with fluttery birds. I’ve become too keen to play the damsel in distress card and let him deal with them when they turn up in the stove in the house, tap-tapping on the glass asking politely to be released from captivity.

But last Tuesday Ivie was at silage at the top of the farm. Being at silage means he does not like being interrupted or any suggestion that he should do anything except continue to be at silage until he’s finished.

Another boring view? I couldn't possibly comment.

Let me give you an example. Last Wednesday I took the dog out for her mid-afternoon pee in between meetings. We strolled up to the steading where I could hear an almighty racket coming from the pen inside the shed. The sun streaming in meant I could only see the silhouette of a young bull battering the gate but that was enough to send me walking briskly back to the house and phoning Ivie.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: But what if it gets out?
Ivie: Go and shut the gates to stop them getting up the hill and then shut the ones near the house. It’ll be fine.
Me: But what if it’s already out when I go back up to shut the gate?
Ivie: Just keep out its way.
Me: I’m too scared.
Ivie: Well, I can’t come down. I’m up the top. Phone Kerr. He’s in the bottom field.
Me: But he might come and it’ll have stopped and he’ll think I’m stupid.
Ivie: Well phone Jane.
Me: OK.

Thankfully Jane was much more sympathetic, told me to shut the gates near the house and keep away from the bull which she described as a ‘lot of beast’. Crisis – and need for bravery – averted.

Back to the birds.

I gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I once removed a mouse from my bath that my cat had kindly gifted me just before a friend came to visit in Auchencairn, not to mention that I once moved 100 miles with no job and no plan - and that’s working out quite well so far.

So, I put up the hood of my hoodie, donned my fire gloves and opened the double doors of the shed (I’m quite glad everyone else at The Spittal was busy and couldn’t see my very attractive get-up).

PPE

I tip-toed towards the burner, opened the door then legged it outside as fast as I could. Not one but two starlings cheeped loudly, flew to the windowsill, cheeped again and flew past me, no doubt off to tell their pals about the wild adventure they’d just had.

Thank goodness that’s over (or words to that effect), I thought to myself.

And obviously I’ve just had to stop writing this to go and release another starling from my burner. Word’s obviously getting round about the middle-aged woman with the fire gloves and now they all want a look at the eejit.