Old Habits Die Hard

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Tea
2. Naps

You might remember that I went on a writing course back in October (I wrote about it in this blog). Well, I've just been on another one. 

In the run-up - as well as looking forward to spending a whole weekend writing and chatting to other people about their writing - one of the things I was most looking forward to was having a slower start to my day. Usually, I'm up, dressed and out with the dog before my eyes are fully open and my body is fully upright. 

Pre-dog, I'd shuffle about in my jammies for a bit, make a cuppa and then think about the day ahead. What joy it would be to relive those days! 

Except what I actually did was wake up at my usual time, get dressed quickly and wonder if the tutor's puppy would like to go for a walk. Even when she didn't, I was out strolling around Brig o Dee before 8am* and thinking about my first cup of tea of the day. 

I've never smoked (except in a pub one night in Cupar, which just left me with a sore throat and sore chest. The fact that the smoking took place inside tells you how long ago it was). However, I imagine the first cigarette of the day is very much like the first cup of tea: nothing else hits that high and you spend the rest of the day trying to recreate it. (A tea problem, me? Absolutely not. I could give up any time I like; I just choose not to.)

I got back from the weekend tired but happy. I'd learned loads and met some great new friends but what I hadn't done was sleep a lot. Despite a ludicrously big bed all to myself, my brain had been too busy to switch off and I arrived home in need of a nap. 

I already know that I am always going to be lazy compared with Ivie (I wrote about it in this blog) and this week I remembered that I can never, ever mention that I am tired. 

Luckily, Ivie is very relaxed about the different paces of our lives. A busy weekend for me is meeting friends for lunch, a rummage in Wigtown Community Shop and a dog walk with a friend (which also includes lunch). A busy weekend for Ivie involves a full day of work, lambing three ewes at 1am, coming to bed just after 2 and and then doing it all again. 

He rarely complains so I definitely don't feel I can moan about being tired when I was basically being force fed cake and laughing till I cried at (true) stories of hamsters and firemen. (It's a bit like the unspoken rule of not mentioning you got less than your usual 8 hours to new parents of a tiny human.)

Thanks to Drew, Ivie has had a couple of nights off from the nightshift so we're managing to go to bed at the same time, something we take for granted the rest of the year. His alarm will still go off before mine as I tell myself that if only I could have a day off from walking the dog, I'd be having a lie in with a cuppa. It seems you can't teach an old dog new tricks after all. 

* I know this is mid-afternoon by farm standards.

Gory Stories

 What you should know:

1. I've started laughing at sheep related content online. 
2. There's no going back. 

Last night, I watched two videos online about sheep. There's a sentence I never thought I'd type. Anyone involved in lambing will already have seen them. The first showed lambs running around a field with a soundtrack reminiscent of the Grand National, basically outlining all the ways lambs can find to die. 

*Spoiler Alert* Because I Could wins the race after shrugging off the competition, including Ringworm and Fantastic Mr Fox. 

The second showed a sheep being rescued from a ditch before running away and jumping straight back into the same ditch a few feet away. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

They were a welcome antidote after a week of horror stories about lambing and farming in general. Rest assured, there will be no gory details because:

1. Those involved in farming will shrug and say, "yep, been there, seen that."
2. Those not involved in farming will be horrified. 
3. I am a delicate flower. 

Delicate flowers

Like many people, our social lives have been a bit lacking lately. Luckily Galloway Heathers is open again with the addition of the Moo Bar, which serves delicious hot chocolate and tray bakes (try the millionaire's shortbread if you haven't already. Seriously). It's become a bit of a weekly treat for us and, it would seem, lots of others around here, too. 

Last week we bumped into a friend who is very well-versed in all things lambing. Let's call her Ann. Because that's her name. She started regaling a story about nasty things that happen to vulnerable lambs out on the hill. I said, "I don't think I'm hardy enough to hear stories like this." So she told five more. 

I was feeling a little queasy to say the least as we bumped into someone else who asked Ivie how lambing had gone and told another couple of ghastly stories. I can't even remember the content now, I've repressed it so far down in my brain. 

Happy, healthy sheep

I don't even think any of these stories are embellished. They don't have to be, they're so awful in the first place. 

I thought we were over the worst of it but then I remembered that farming is basically the most dangerous industry you can work in. A quick Google tells me that about 360,000 people work in agriculture, or 1% of the total workforce, yet the sector is responsible for 20% of all fatal accidents at work (source: BBC).

Anyway, we had a bit of a jaunt yesterday. It did finish at the garden centre with hot chocolate and mini doughnuts but that's by the by. We took a bit of a circuitous route home, mainly so that Ivie could look at fields and show me where he's cut silage*. And tell me about farm workers' injuries. 

I'm struggling to find something to say about this

So, as you can see, it's been a week. From now on, I only want to hear about thriving animals, farmers with all their limbs intact and cake. Not too much to ask now is it. 

* If anyone can tell me the most suitable response to, "I've cut silage in that field," I would be most appreciative. I'm not sure I'm showing the requisite amount of interest and enthusiasm. 

Not a WAG

Things I know:

• I'm woefully unqualified to be a Farmer's WAG*
• That's ok

As I may have mentioned once or twice, I don't come from a farming background. I'm most definitely a townie and one without many lifeskills if I'm honest. 

I was quite nervous about meeting other WAGs when I first started seeing Ivie. I had visions of them all running around doing the farm accounts with one hand, feeding a pet lamb with the other, while waiting for yet another perfect Victoria sponge to come out of the oven. To be fair, I still think most of them could do this but luckily they don't seem to mind that I can't.

Not really a Victoria sponge

My first experience of WAGs was quite full-on. We were off to a Burns Supper where I knew exactly one other person in the room (Ivie) and he knew everyone (of course). I was hideously anxious. It was the first time I'd met Ivie's brother and sister-in-law (in the car on the way there so not exactly relaxed) and I was asking myself all sorts of stupid questions (in my head otherwise that would have been weird). 

• what if everyone thinks my dress looks stupid?
• what if they think I'm not good enough for him?
• what if they think he should be with someone who went to Young Farmers?

Not really a pet lamb

Obviously, the answer to all of these questions is the same: there was too much booze for anyone to care.

For the non-farmers, let me say something about Young Farmers. Before I was with Ivie, I thought it was just where young folk went to ensnare meet their significant other and learn quite fixed gender-based skills: baking and sewing for the girls; drinking and fighting for the boys. Now I know that's not really the case. The young men and women involved in YF around here are involved in all sorts of things, including public speaking, stock judging and raising the positive profile of farming. Here endeth the lesson.

I headed for the bar and was immediately flanked by two women. Let's call them Nic and Barbara for argument's sake. The conversation went something like this:

Nic (in one breath): "You must be Rebecca. We're Nic and Barbara. What are you drinking? Red wine? Let's get a bottle."

The women reading this will nod in agreement when I say that women can be absolutely magnificent to other women and it's bloody marvellous. 

Suffice to say, my anxiety faded. I drank and I laughed and I laughed and I drank. And that's pretty much been my experience of WAGs ever since. 

* WAG = A Wife or Girlfriend, usually of a sports player with a high profile and glamorous lifestyle

Not really a WAG