Step away from the caramel wafers

Things you should know: 

1. I'm not a natural athlete.
2. I really like biscuits. 

The end of March/beginning of April is a bit of a calorie-fest in our family. My brother and I have birthdays two days apart, we're both sugar fiends and, often, Easter is thrown into the (batter) mix as well. 

Birthday cake baked by Ivie

Recently, I've been trying to get back into running to offset the choco liebniz. So far, so slowly. Almost 30 years after leaving school, I still carry that self-consciousness of being picked last for every team and the memories of sporty kids sniggering. I've ditched the 'all the gear, no idea' neon in favour of all black and, although I look like I'm off to deliver a box of Milk Tray, I feel much more comfortable shuffling and puffing my way along the cycle path. 

I think about lots of unrelated things as I shuffle along. Like how I used to have lie-ins before we got a puppy and how Ivie and I used to go to bed at the same time before lambing. (It hasn't escaped me that many of these thoughts are sleep related...)

"Lie-ins? Pah!"

I also wonder about farmers and sport:

• Are they genetically predisposed to enjoy - and excel at - sport?
• Are they automatically competitive or is it instilled into them at Young Farmers?
• Does it matter that I'm from a different mould? 

I'm not sure about the answers to the first two and I know that the answer to the third should be 'no'.  

I learned early on to stay away from anything other than spectator sports in the farming community (you might remember my lack of success at curling). It's all down to an ill-judged evening at the sidelines of a hockey match. 

Like so many things, I'd said 'yes' before really thinking about it. I'd not long done a 10k (slowly but without stopping) so was fairly fit and thought I might have, say, a 30% chance of hitting the ball. It might be a bit of a laugh and a good way to meet some of Ivie's friends. 

I watched the first game with fear and awe as the players whacked the ball from one end of the hall to the other, while simultaneously cackling and sprinting. This wasn't sport, it was torture! Ivie ended up on the floor at one point after trying to intercept a flying ball. Proof, if any was needed, that I'm definitely from a different mould.

Ball just out of reach? Oh well, I might get it next time. Not the attitude that's called for apparently. 

I prefer a nice cup of tea and a sit down

So, I watched from the side, feeling slightly daft in my kit whilst pressed up against the wall for safety. It was obvious to everyone that I had no intention of actually joining in but at least I went home bruise-free. 

I guess everyone's definition of sporting success is different. 

Wearing it Well

Things you should know:

1. I've never been fashionable (although you've probably guessed that by now). 
2. That's ok. 

I think it was inevitable that I ended up living with a farmer on a farm. The uniform is great and suits me down to the (muddy) ground.

It won't surprise you to know that I've never been a dedicated follower of fashion. Being born in the 70s and having two older brothers means the hand-me-downs were more tomboy than Tammy Girl and that's been pretty much my 'style' (if you can call it that) since then. There was that time circa 1982 that my mum wouldn't let me get a rara skirt but, on reflection, that's maybe no bad thing. 

These days, I'm happiest in jeans and wellies or head-to-toe waterproofs for walkies in the rain. There haven't exactly been many opportunities for getting dressed up this year anyway and that actually suits me fine. Given the choice, it's comfort over style every time, although I haven't quite resorted to working from home in my jammies. 

There has been lots of chat recently about 80s style making a comeback, what with Diana and The Crown and the Quality Street dresses on Strictly. I'm slightly horrified but then I remember that it's unlikely that boiler suits will suddenly have ruffled collars or waterproof leggings will become pleated and high waisted. 

My last blog was all about the uncertainties in farming but I'm reassured by the constancy of some things. 

• There will always be two pairs of muddy wellies and leggings at the door.
• I'll know it's below freezing when Ivie finally gets the thermals out the back of the wardrobe. 
• There will never be a shoulder pad in sight. 

Murder in the Farmyard

What you should know:

1. My brother is great. 
2. He's also a typical big brother.

My brother, David, is ten years older than me. He's one of the main reasons I moved to Dumfries and Galloway. We were about to turn 40 and 50 and I was fed up of saying, "Wouldn't it be good if we lived nearer each other?" So, I handed in my notice, sold my flat and made the move from the big city. 

He's one of my favourite people - despite cutting my hair off when I was three, giving me mashed potato he told me was ice cream and making me take a big spoonful of sherbet that turned out to be bicarb. He regularly makes me laugh until I can't breathe and we have the same views about the important things, like biscuits and scones. 

Here we are at a Halloween Party a few years ago. 

It's probably best not to ask
Photo by Katie

Having said all that, I wouldn't want to work with him, which brings me to the very important farmery question of the day. How do family members work with each other for decades without committing matricide, patricide, fratricide, sororicide (I had to look that one up) or any other type of -cide?

I did think about googling 'farm murders' but thought better of it (my algorithms are in a big enough mess as it is).

I'm sure it won't surprise you to know that Ivie and his brother give each other a cuddle at the start of every day on the farm and finish the day with a very continental peck on each cheek. But there must be days when they disagree about what to name the latest newborn lamb, what colour the new quad bike should be and where to keep the latest tool from Aldi's random aisle (it was a ratchet set last night, since you ask). 

Which all makes me think about all the weapons and pseudo-weapons on a farm. It could be like a new take on Cluedo. Pseudo-Cluedo anyone?

• Farmer Fisher Senior in the top shed with the shotgun
• Farmer Fisher Junior in the old byre with the pinch bar 
• Nephew Fisher in the dairy with the dehorning shears

I always thought living in the country was pretty safe. It's maybe time to start looking in the random aisle for an ice pick to keep under my pillow. 

Kiltin' not Killin'
Photo by Louise