Ice, Ice Baby

 What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Socialising

What I haven’t been thinking about:

• Fertiliser prices

Over the last few weeks, it feels like that world has started to open up a lot more. I’ve gone from being a bit anxious about leaving the farm to looking forward to seeing other people. I’ve still got some anti-social tendencies but they’re more personality-related than covid-related. 

For the last couple of years, we’ve all been making our own entertainment at home. Being middle-aged, ours has revolved around drinking wine, eating salty snacks and laughing at our own jokes. Now that we’re comfortable being out and about much more, I’m cutting down on the frazzles so that my going out clothes still fit but I’ll hold on to the vino and hilarity if you don’t mind.

Last week, we were at a curling club dinner to celebrate 50 years of the local ice rink. (There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.)

Over 300 people were packed on to the iceless ice rink for dinner, drinks and a lot of speeches. It was a good night, catching up with people we hadn’t seen for a long time and being in the same room as a lot of Olympians and shiny medals. There was a shout-out to all the clubs represented and I was more than a little disappointed that ‘curling widows’ wasn’t a recognised group in its own right. 

What I’d forgotten about socialising in the outside world with Ivie was the topics of conversation. There’s a lot of crossover between the curling and farming communities so inevitably the chat around our table turned to lambing, silaging and fertiliser prices. In fact, one couple even had to leave early because a cow was calving at home. Another sentence I never thought I’d type. 

Very expensive, apparently

I like to think I can hold my own a bit more these days when it comes to farming chat. Gone are the days when I didn’t recognise anything or anyone being discussed and drifted off in my own head, circling back when we got to more familiar ground (or asking really, really stupid questions). Having said that, there was the party where the men I was standing with got on to different brands of wellies and which cattle breeds were their favourites to cross. Even I couldn’t fake interest in that. 

What’s changed, though, is that I know more people and I can go off and find someone who wants to talk about the important things in life. Like Sewing Bee, the age spaniels finally calm the **** down and how long it’ll be before we’ll need varifocals. I told you I was middle-aged. 

Ambitious stick carrying

Glorious Mud

Things you should know:

1. None of my clothes are clean.
2. I don't really mind. 

I was doing a work project recently that involved having Zoom calls with a few people around the region. Most were people I hadn't met before but one was someone I've crossed paths with through various jobs over the years. 

I hadn't spoken to her for a while so we had a bit of a catch up before I started asking her my Very Important work questions. We had a chat about me living at the farm and she said she thought it sounded idyllic. She fancied the idea of being surrounded by animals but was put off by the dirt, she said. 

Magnificent beasts

"You don't know the half of it," I thought to myself. My dog eats sh*te and my boyfriend routinely comes in with it on his head. It certainly puts a different spin on having a dirty weekend... 

On Friday night we went to a friend's for dinner. There were to be three couples, including one Ivie and I hadn't met. Our host set up a group chat to confirm the details. You know the kind of thing: who was still doing Dry January (0/6); who had a negative lateral flow test (6/6); and what not to wear (anything we didn't mind getting covered in dog hair). 

I typed, "I live on a farm. None of my clothes stay clean for longer than five minutes* (not entirely the farm's fault)."
The woman I was yet to meet replied, "I spill food."

I knew then that we'd all get along and that we'd have a great night. I'm pleased to report that I was right on both counts. 

*[I should say at this point that I know this isn't the case for everyone who lives on a farm. I know lots of people who look very well turned out all the time. Dirt has a habit of jumping out on me, though. I could live in a hermetically sealed box and still have toothpaste on my top and mud on my jeans. In fact, I inadvertently went to my last kidney check-up in just that outfit.]

My natural state

Although I'm beyond delighted that parts of life are returning to normal where we can go to each other's houses for dinner and meet up with other like-minded souls, I do have to remind myself that:

1. Real life is not a Zoom call.
2. More than my head and shoulders are on show when I leave the house.
3. Not everyone is immune to farm aromas. 

Still, at least I can't be put on mute in the real world... 

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. 

Boilersuit Blues

Things you should know:
1. Dirt jumps on me
2. I am quite persistent

One of the best things about living on a farm is having a boiler suit. I wear one when I'm doing anything outside, whether it's farm-related or not. (And let's face it, I don't do anything that's actually farm-related.)

It helps keep my clothes clean which is no mean feat. Dirt has a habit of finding me, even when I'm not looking for it. 

You'd be forgiven for thinking that all this time I've had a boilersuit from Tarff (the local farm supplies store) or from one of the companies that Ivie buys things from. Funnily enough, this time last year Ivie bought a big bit of farm machinery. 

For non-farmers, it's not unusual when a farmer makes a big purchase like this to have a couple of freebies thrown in, like a power tool - or protective clothing (for example...). Ivie requested an angle grinder (which he got) and a boilersuit for me (which I did not). Not mentioning any names but my boiler suit would have been graay* and green - and supplied by one of the 7 Dwarves. If you know, you know.... 

That's not to say I didn't already have one. Many, many years ago I was an exchange student in northern Sweden, about an hour south of the Arctic Circle. One of the things that's a thing in Scandinavia is studentoverall. Each faculty has their own colour and at my uni, as luck would have it, exchange students had navy blue ones. The only slightly unlucky part was that they had a bloody great comic book moose on the back.... 

Exhibit A

You can imagine my delight, then, when I was promised a non-comedy boilersuit. And my disappointment at having to carry on wearing the equivalent of toddler's pyjamas instead. Not that I'm bitter. 

Then the zip went on Ivie's 'one size fits none' boilersuit and he ordered two new ones! 

Bring on the trumpets! 

So, now I have my very own proper boilersuit, which is perfect for protecting me from all the dirt, grime and toothpaste I come into contact with on a daily basis. 

I'm even in vogue for the first time in my life. Probably.

* for non-farmers, this is a deliberate typo.

The (Wash) Cycle of Life

Two nights ago I went to bed early. This was not because:

1. I was tired (even though I was);
or
2. I wanted to read more of my book (even though I did). 

Nope. It was because Ivie stank. 

I thought I'd become immune to farm smells but it seems my nostrils still have an ounce of sensitivity left. 

During lambing Ivie basically lives in his working clothes. He gets up, puts the same clothes on as yesterday, works, checks the lambing shed, snoozes on the sofa, checks the lambing shed again and comes to bed somewhere between midnight and 2am. 'Putting the same clothes on as yesterday' generally lasts a week then the whole lot goes in the washing machine and he moves on to the next set of working clothes for a bit of variety. 

This was ok when we didn't live together because my weekly visit was a marker for him to swap clothes. Not so much this year, especially during isolation when neither of us is entirely sure what day it is. 

Not Lambs (I'm learning...)

I'd already had a hint that working clothes were a complicated business when I tried to get him to put his long johns in the bin about a fortnight ago. They were like a spider's web with more holes than Swiss cheese (how's that for mixed metaphors?). 

Me: Don't you have another pair of long johns in the wardrobe? 

Ivie: Yes but they're my good ones. 

Me: But they'd keep you warm in the lambing shed. 

Ivie: I can't just wear them during lambing! They're my good ones! 

Me: Sigh. 

As far as I can make out, the working clothes system basically involves keeping every item of clothing ever purchased and filtering it through convoluted and unexplained categories such as working clothes, good working clothes, clothes for lambing and a 'polo shirt I was given in 1996 that was too big for me even then'. 

Our friend, Una, who you'll remember from this blog, suggested that this is something farmers learn alongside crop rotation. It's certainly impenetrable to the uninitiated. 

To save you from nightmares I have not included a photograph of the aforementioned thermals. You're welcome.