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. 

Sweet Dreams

Things I know:

• Ivie rarely has insomnia. 
• He is much less crabbit than I am.

Last week we were staying up a bit later than usual. With the warmer weather and lighter nights, it felt like those days in the summer holidays where you didn't want to go to bed and would rather play outside for another three and a half hours.

Midge Repellent Firepit

But cows still need fed. So, Ivie gets up at the usual time and I roll over and have another forty winks.

I've been lucky that during lockdown I've been able to work from home. My commute into the village is only usually three minutes, to be fair, but working from a desk in the hallway means that my hair doesn't need to be brushed (or washed for that matter...), my top and bottom halves don't have to match and I can be as smart or as scruffy as I like. But let's be honest, even my smart edges towards other people's scruffy...

Giblin HQ

Since Ivie has been getting less sleep than usual, he's been having the odd nap on the sofa. He has the remarkable ability of falling asleep within a breath and a half. At lambing time, it's even less. Towards the end of lambing we were watching TV and he said, "I think I'll have a nap". Before I'd even had time to turn round and acknowledge him, he was sleeping soundly. (And that was during Countryfile so he must have been tired.)

If I've had less than my eight hours, I get a bit crabbit and oversensitive. At peak lambing, Ivie comes to bed at 3am, gets up again at 7am and never complains. I'm not quite sure how he does it. 

Just another reason that it's a good thing I work in an office and not on the farm.