Dead or alive in the Fens?

Is he dead or alive? That was the question posed to me when I was flagged down by a lady on a horse on the edge of our Fenland village.
"There's a man lying in that field under a tree and he's been there for a long time without moving," she said pointing from her vantage point in the saddle, high above my open car window.
"His mobile phone has just been ringing and he didn't move an inch. I can't really go over because of my horse and I also have my granddaughter with me," she added with a look of deep concern, nodding towards a girl on a pony a few yards further up the road. "Anything could have happened to him. It's an unusual place to be, under that tree. I was wondering if..."
I finished the sentence for her.
"If I could go over and check if he's alive?"
"Well, yes, if you don't mind," she said half laughing. "I could always flag down another car if you don't want to go over."
Emotional blackmail.
I could see only a pair of legs jutting out from under the tree. The rest of his body was obscured by autumn foliage. My anxiety must have been obvious. In fact, I was really peed off as well as feeling sorry for the bloke. There I was, enjoying a pleasant drive home down the country lanes after picking up some hay and straw for our animals from a farm supplies shop just over the county border in nearby Norfolk, and now this. Instead of looking forward to a lunchtime sandwich and a cup of tea, I faced the prospect of trying to revive someone who might have collapsed through a severe heart attack or epileptic fit. Murdered? He might be a crazy man who sleeps rough. But he might be dead. Stone cold.
Oh, deep bloody joy.
"No, you're OK, I go take a look and check if he is OK ... he's probably drunk," I said, in hope rather than expectation, and with an air of resignation. I'll admit I was scared of what I might find.
"Yes, you're right. It might be one of the agricultural workers from abroad. He's probably had a few ... although it is rather early. It's only 12.15," she said.
Thanks for that, dear. You stay there, on your high horse.
I reluctantly got out of my car, took a deep breath and marched over to the field. As I neared the still body I slowed down and stopped a couple of yards away. He was now in full view. His hands were clasped across his chest. At least he looked at peace. My heart was pounding. What next? Suddenly, the man let out a sigh. Oh, what relief. At least he hasn't popped his clogs, or trainers in this instance.
He then proceeded to snore. And I could smell alcohol from where I stood. Satisfied that he was simply blotto/legless/loaded/sloshed/smashed/sozzled/stinko/wasted - whatever term you wish -  I took the snap of the contented fellow on my own phone.
I then shouted "Are you OK?" a couple of times, but there was no response. So I gently kicked the sole of a well-worn trainer and that did the trick.
His bloodshot eyes sprang open, he let out a groan and tried to raise himself on his elbows as he slowly focused on the towering figure that was me.
"Are you OK?" I asked again, this time in a quieter tone.
"Yes, yes. OK. Me OK, thank you. Thank you," he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. There's no point in guessing exactly which nationality because there are farm workers from many countries, including Russia, Poland and Ukraine, who are based here in the Fens. They work long hard hours, in cold, mucky conditions, so I reckon he deserved to sleep it off after his drinks break in a makeshift beer garden, don't you?
I gave him a wave which was reciprocated with a half-smile, before he fumbled in a coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. At least it wasn't a bottle. I headed back to my car, giving the waiting lady a thumbs up. "He's all right - just drunk as a skunk," I shouted.
With that, she laughed and turned to her granddaughter, before the pair continued their afternoon ride down the lane.
Life's never dull in these 'ere parts.
PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus 

A compelling new chapter for the Fens

Fit for a king: the new departures concourse at
King's Cross railway station

I used to read at least one book a week commuting to London on the days I didn't need to drive. The afternoon railway journey into the capital allowed me an hour's reading time while the tedious trip home on the last train from King's Cross in the early hours gave me a further 20 minutes.
Thankfully, I am now spared that debilitating routine.
No more trips from Platform 9B at about 1.40am on the Vomit Comet, a somewhat inaccurate label from passengers since it was - and presumably still is - a train which takes in so many stations as it heads slowly to Peterborough. Nothing like a comet, but the vomit part was often correct. The journey could be a real sickener. Ugh. Too much information.

Say Cheese: the cover of a menu at
Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street

The downside is that book reading has suffered at the expense of a less stressful lifestyle. Up until a few days ago, I have been dipping in and out of the odd novel. Not so much a reflection of the author's talent as my ability to be easily distracted. There's always something else to do.
London now calls just once a week, although I did travel in by train a few days ago to meet up with former colleagues at the [Ye Olde] Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street.
The pub, which was destroyed by the Great Fire of 1666 and rebuilt the following year, has been frequented by many famous people - I'm not referring to Piers Morgan here - such as Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Dr Samuel Johnson and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Last week, however, the famous establishment, with its dark wooden panels, open fires and sawdust-covered stone ground floor, had to make do with a bunch of ne'er-do-wells. It was a enjoyable to have a good chinwag with some good pals, and to take the compulsory trip down Memory Lane. It was also a great opportunity to begin reading a book on the train.

Fleeting glimpse: St Paul's Cathedral dominates the view from
Fleet Street looking across Ludgate Circus

Unlike many of my fellow passengers, I opted for the orginal, a Kindle Mk I, which was a good old-fashioned paperback. I've nothing against Kindles, a great piece of kit, but I felt the need for a real book on this occasion. One with pages of paper. Remember them?
And my choice of author? Well, I decided it was high time I actually started something written by a highly commended local author, so I chose Jim Kelly, whose blog can be found on this link: http://www.jim-kelly.co.uk/.
What a great choice. I raced through The Water Clock, following the escapades of journalist Philip Dryden against the backdrop of my very own Fens. I am now hooked on the novels of this compelling writer and I am just about to embark on another Dryden tale, The Moon Tunnel.
I am pleased to say that my enthusiasm for the talent of Ely-based Mr Kelly is shared by others far more qualified to pass judgment. Here is just one of many tributes that sums it up for me:

Cover of The Water Clock

"Kelly's evocation of the bleak and watery landscapes provide a powerful backdrop to a wonderful cast of characters . . ."

Praise indeed.

And here's Fenman's contribution:

"A big thank-you to Jim Kelly. It's about bloody time I started reading books again." 

Feeling at home on an Autumn day in Fenland

Mist photo opportunity: crooked telegraph poles mark out this
quiet Fenland road amid the noon Autumn gloom 

My wife's mum has now been living at the care home on the outskirts of Ely for three months - and she already seems to be institutionalised.
It is no surprise that she quickly forgot she had been living with us in our Fenland village home for more than three and a half years. After all, she inhabits that frightening, twilight world shared by every poor soul who suffers from Alzheimer's Disease.
And yet even though my wife and I know her memory is fading fast - and will continue to deteriorate - we cannot help but feel a deep sense of sadness over the fact that she shared our home, consumed our thoughts and shaped our lives, and yet has no recollection so soon afterwards.
She now possesses just the odd piece of genuine recall to go with her jumbled collection of memories. A giant sepia jigsaw of fading past impressions, with pieces being lost or misplaced at an alarming rate. http://alzheimers.org.uk/  and  http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/home/
She remains in the care of a great bunch of professionals while my wife continues her recovery after her accident [see previous post Hip hip hooray! Friday, July 20]. It's a long road, a bumpy old Fenland drove, but she's slowly getting there.
My wife's mum was sleeping in a high-backed chair, head slumped on her chest, when we arrived armed with a few goodies, including a couple of packets of her beloved Werther's Original Butter Mints. They were one of her husband's favourites, too. Those and jelly babies, ice cream, cakes, plain crisps, meat pies, roast beef, chips, bacon sarnies, full English ... actually, the list is endless. Yep, he did like his food, sweet and savoury.
In the television room next door, a familiar hymn was being half-heartedly sung by a visiting vicar and a handful of residents, with accompaniment from a shaky electric organ played by a frail-looking nervous lady. It was like a scene from the League of Gentlemen.
"Wakey, wakey," said the care assistant as she gently prodded my mother-in-law's still form. "You've got visitors."
Her eyes shot open and she stared at her daughter through the thick lenses of her large-framed, old-fashioned specs. Recognition was instant, thankfully. Occasionally, she struggles for a name, but not today.
The three of us plonked ourselves down in the warm conservatory overlooking misty paddocks and fields, and surprisingly for the this area, a few hedgerows and a large variety of trees dressed in rich red and yellow autumn colours. It was an uplifting sight on a chilly, damp day encased by a huge leaden Fenland sky.
We talked for well over an hour. Well, to be truthful, my wife and I listened while she spoke, even though the words she wanted to use often eluded her. The thoughts of Chairman (woman) Meow. Mum-in-law was in a particularly catty mood. The claws were out and nobody was spared.
The clergy, God - or "Him upstairs" - religion in general, her late husband, politicians, her mother, other care home residents ... all took a verbal bashing, despite our attempts to lift her mood. It was obvious she was tired. We recognised the signs. Perhaps an unsettled night.
But then the uncomfortable spell was broken as residents began to shuffle though to the dining room next to our cosy conservatory, some with the help of carers, others with the aid of frames and a few under their own steam. Roast dinner. A glorious, unmistakable smell was in the air and mother-in-law suddenly became aware, turning her head towards the growing clamour behind her as the dining room filled.
"It's lunch-time, mum. It smells good," said my wife.
"Yes it does," she said as she picked up her cumbersome dark blue handbag and stood.
"You'd better take your seat or you'll miss your meal," added my wife encouragingly.
"Yes, you're right, dear. They serve some nice food ... sometimes," replied mother-in-law mischievously as she disappeared through the door.
"We'll see you again soon, Mum," called my wife.
Mum-in-law glanced back in our direction, but seemed preoccupied by matters of the stomach.
"Yes, take care dear. See you soon. Now then, where shall I sit? Shall I sit here?"
In that instant, our visit was over, soon to be forgotten.

Sir Francis Drake and the girls make their entrance

What are you staring at? Sir Francis [left] and his girls settle in,
unaware of the sheep behind them

The dashing Sir Francis Drake has finally joined us. He arrived in a humble family Ford rather than the Golden Hind, but he did so with three very attractive ladies in tow.
Yes, we finally made it to nearby Norfolk to collect our Trout Indian Runner ducks from Karen and Richard, the lovely couple who run, among other things, Power Poultry [http://www.powerpoultry.co.uk - see also Karen's blog].
We ordered the ducks a couple of months ago when we picked up Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and ... Mabel, Pekin batams complete with feathered trousers and plenty of attitude [see Crispy Ducks post, July 1]. Sadly, my wife's accident [see Friday 13th post, July 14] and subsequent recuperation meant we had to put Operation Duck on hold. But it has been well worth the wait. This week I finally completed their enclosure and, having taken delivery of our custom-made duck house - unlike former MP Sir Peter Viggers, we are unable to make any claim for Sir Francis's new abode - we brought the flock home.

Relocation, relocation: Kirsty and Phil eat your heart out

They seem great characters and really do fit the bill! They are already settling in, despite some curious onlookers, notably our pygmy goats, and my wife is in the process of giving the ladies names so an update will follow in a couple of days. Must go, it will be dark soon.
Footnote: First night nerves for the gang, I'm afraid. They were extremely noisy when I went down to put the animals away for the night and simply dashed from corner to corner as I tried to herd them into their new quarters. I had to call on the assistance of my wife who hobbled to the rescue and used her crutches to great effect as we eventually directed them up the ramp and to bed for the night. All now quiet. Bliss.
And the girls' have finally been named. No, not noisy little buggers, as I suggested after that episode an hour or so ago. Drake's companions are henceforth known as Demelza, Dafne[y] and Daisy. D'oh!

PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus 

Peeking Pekins: Martha (front) and the girls look on

Noisy neighbours: Molly and Reg [right] stare at the newcomers

PPS: I would appreciate feedback so please feel free to make constructive comments and remember that by clicking on the adverts next to any post you are also helping to raise money for research into Alzheimer's disease. So keep on clicking.

Bill and Ben, the Fens' Flower Pot Men

Bill and Ben, or Betty? This Fenland couple soak up the afternoon sunshine
 ... and their favourite wine [click on this picture to enlarge]

Remember Bill and Ben the Flower Pot Men? Well, the pair have been brought back to life in a rural front garden in the heart of the Fens.
Those of a certain age will probably recall the black and white days of Watch With Mother on the BBC [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DW95ayqhuCE] and the jibbering characters who spoke in a Goonesque style [http://www.thegoonshow.net/]. Their language was called Oddle Poddle.
The series started in the early Fifties and ran for about 20 years and was apparently revamped in 2001. The Flower Pot Men is the story of two little men made of flower pots who lived by a potting shed at the bottom of an English surburban garden. Each day they had an adventure while the gardener was having a lunch break.

Puppet power: an early Andy Pandy title card  Wikipedia

Like so many other kids, I was entranced by the puppets - and delicate Weed whose vocabulary was limited to "Weeeeeeeeeeeed" - along with other shows on Watch With Mother, including Andy Pandy and the Wooden Tops. It was sad when Andy waved goodbye, wasn't it? In fact, my wife admits that she used to cry. Ah, bless. And she was only 30. Joking.
So if you're passing through these parts you might just get a glimpse of yesteryear as Bill and Ben - one of them might be female so she should be Betty or Bet - chill out with a glass of wine. Give them a wave.
"Babap ickle Weed!"

PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus

PPS: I would appreciate feedback so please feel free to make constructive comments and remember that by clicking on the adverts next to any post you are also helping to raise money for research into Alzheimer's disease. So keep on clicking.

First-class honour for Fenland's golden boy

Fenland's Jonnie Peacock delivered gold in the Paralympic Games - and Royal Mail swiftly returned the compliment with their own seal of approval.
The teenager's home village of Doddington now proudly boasts a gold post box. A red post box has been changed to a winning colour in the city, town or village of every Team GB athlete who triumphed at the London 2012 Olympic Games and Paralympic Games to honour their feats and the Royal Mail have even produced a useful post box finder [http://www.goldpostboxes.com/] mapping out where you can see these golden monuments.

Here's Jonnie: Peacock kisses his gold medal
Getty Images via @daylife

Animated villagers were clogging the pavement outside the Post Office when box changed colour as journalists and camera crews grabbed anyone willing to give a suitable quote. They were well and truly in the spotlight and rumour has it that the village Post Office is now doing a roaring trade in commemorative stamps [http://shop.royalmail.com/paralympicsgb-gold-medal-winner-miniature-sheets/paralympicsgb-gold-medal-winner-miniature-sheet-jonnie-peacock/invt/sku00008082/].
Doddingtonians are rightly excited about Jonnie's achievement and will no doubt be hoping he continues to put their village on the map with more first-class performances as he addresses even more personal targets [http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/disability-sport/19587658] such as running the 100m in 10.6sec. If he was an American, would he be looking for the zip code? Oh, please yourselves. Anyway, he is aiming to run faster next year - and I'm sure he'll post some quick times as he stamps his authority on the track. [Enough of these postal puns - Ed].
Jonnie, 19, who had to have part of his right leg amputated as a child [see previous post]  triumphed in the T44 100 metres as more than six million viewers tuned in to watch when he comfortably saw off the challenge of fourth-placed Blade Runner, Oscar Pistorious.
A golden moment worthy of a golden post box. Pity the quality of that hastily-writtten cardboard sign above his picture doesn't quite match Jonnie's success.
DID YOU KNOW? The coach of Fenland's very own dashing blade, Dan Pfaff, is the only man to have mentored 100m gold medalists at the Olympics and Paralympics. He was Donovan Bailey's coach in 1996 when the Canadian won in Atlanta.

PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus

PPS: I would appreciate feedback so please feel free to make constructive comments and remember that by clicking on the adverts next to any post you are also helping to raise money for research into Alzheimer's disease. So keep on clicking.

Fenland's proud of heroic Peacock

Setting the benchmark: Oscar Pistorious [left]
and Jonnie Peacock                    paralympic.org

Some thought it could be Oscar night, but it was Fenland's Jonnie Peacock who grabbed centre stage and turned the spectacle into the Brit Awards.
The teenager produced a blistering run to overshadow South Africa's legendary Blade Runner and win the Paralympic 100m. In doing so, he consolidated his position as the fastest amputee in the world.
Roared on by 80,000 spectators amid an electric atmosphere at the Olympic Stadium, the 19-year-old from the village of Doddington, led from the start to set a Paralympic record of 10.9 in the T44 event. His great hero and rival, Oscar Pistorious, who trailed in fourth, was the first the congratulate the Brit and shower him with genuine compliments in a TV interview seconds after crossing the line.
The Peacock story is well-known in these parts, having been documented by local newspapers and television since the heroic lad was a five-year-old who had his lower right leg amputated after contracting meningoccal septicaemia. Did that prevent him from leading a full and active life? Of course not. And the poster boy of the Paralympics, who is also the world record-holder, answered that question in emphatic fashion with a gold medal.
His understandable delight in victory was summed up when he said: "It's absolutely surreal ... to be part of these Games is amazing."
No, Jonnie, you're amazing. And furthermore, the whole of Fenland is very proud of you.
The only downside is that he's a Liverpool fan. Hey, you can't win them all Jonnie. His grandad played for Everton and Liverpool, so I suppose he is excused for such poor taste in football clubs.
And I can't wait to see the village post box painted in a gold colour to honour Jonnie. So much more classy than Liverpool red, I'm sure you'll agree.
PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus
PPS: I would appreciate feedback so please feel free to make constructive comments and remember that by clicking on the adverts next to any post you are also helping to raise money for research into Alzheimer's disease. So keep on clicking.

XIV Paralympic Games
Wikipedia

The forgotten costs of Alzheimer's Disease

Read all about it: Alzheimer poster
Paolo Comparin

Rant alert. More than £2,300. That's my mother-in-law's care home bill for a month. They actually charge £550 per week so that should be £2,200, shouldn't it? Ah, but they charge by the day, hence the higher price.
Now my gripe isn't with the care home. They have excellent staff and they look after mum-in-law really well while my wife is out of action after breaking her hip [see hip-hip hooray]. Furthermore, their bills are not that high, believe it or not. A new establishment about eight miles away charge more than £800 per week. And many places cost more than a £1,000 each week. Grand. I don't think so.
The government continue to place these charges on elderly people suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. Why, when here in the UK we have a National Health Service that supposedly foots the bill for the ill and infirm?
Alzheimer's is not an in-your-face horrendous disease, initially, like an aggressive form of cancer. No chemotherapy, radiotherapy or clinical trials that can leave a suffer looking - and feeling - like an inmate from Belsen concentration camp. But it can and does turn out that way with severe dementia. It just takes longer.

Campaigner: Sir Terry Pratchett at the South Bank Sky Arts Awards in London
Getty Images via @daylife

And before that stage is reached, the person suffering from Alzheimer's slowly declines into a world of shadows and a jumble of hollow, childhood memories; incapable of knowing the time of day, the month or season, unable to dress properly, to cook, to buy or sell, to reason, to read, to find the right words to complete even the most simple of sentences. Then brief bursts of awareness. They realise what is happening to them. Their pain is almost physical. But those moments of lucidity and illumination, like shafts of bright light in a twilight world, swiftly disappear and all is forgotten. Thank goodness.
It's a nasty, horrible, wicked illness.
The likes of Sir Terence David John Pratchett, author of the Discworld series of comic fantasy books, campaign for greater awareness about Alzheimer's [and choosing to die] after announcing he was suffering from the early onset of the disease in 2007, but more needs to be done. The likes of Alzheimer's Research UK http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/ and the Alzheimer's Society http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/ need donations because so much research has to be carried out into an illness that affects a high percentage of an ageing society.
We don't expect people to foot the bill when they are treated for cancer so why do we expect dementia sufferers to spend their life savings on their own care?
Smart arse [ass] MPs or government ministers will insist that poor people do not have to pay. That is someone with less than £23,000 in savings and no home to sell.
But what about those people who have worked hard throughout their lives, who have paid their national insurance contributions, who have scrimped, saved, spent wisely and perhaps inherited. Tough luck if you have Alzheimers. Get a relative to look after you or pay for your own care home.
That attitude stinks. It's a bloody disgrace and an indictment of the NHS and our policy-makers. That's not what the NHS is about.
Yet the reality is that this controversial issue comes down to cost. Such a surprise. But how do you put a price on such sensitive subject matter?
According to the Alzheimer's Society, there are more than 800,000 people in the UK with a form of dementia and 17,000 of those are under 65. Break down those figures even more and you will discover that one in 100 have dementia in the 65-69 age group, while it is one in 25 for 70-79-year-olds and one in six if you 80 or over. These figures are official and will rise as our ageing population soars. And what about the many folk who are afraid to admit they have dementia and try to conceal their illness. Or those who simply shrug off the symptoms, don't mention anything to their doctor, saying it is simply part of old age.
Sadly, dementia is something that will touch us all. If you don't suffer from it, then a friend or relative will. So perhaps the government might want to examine this issue because that accounts for an awful lot of votes.
Rant over.
PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus
PPS: I would appreciate feedback so please feel free to make constructive comments and remember that by clicking on the adverts next to any post you are also helping to raise money for research into Alzheimer's disease. So keep on clicking.

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• Top poet Ian Macmillan pens dementia verse for Alzheimer's Society

Thyme to let the cat out of the growbag

Purr-fect place to sleep: Amy proves she has cattitude, even among the herbs

MARY KELLY

Meet Amy, the cool cat from Carlow [Ceatharlach] in Ireland. She's a growing girl and needs all the rest she can get. In fact, you might say she enjoys a catnap when the fur isn't flying.
However, from her prone position in the plastic tray, you could be forgiven for thinking that chilled-out Amy is going to seed in the back garden of our good pal Mary.
Amy doesn't do wind, apparently. Indeed, she doesn't do very much at all. But to be fair [should that be fur?] to our feline friend, it was blowing a fair old Irish breeze on the day this photo was taken.
So she opted for the sheltered, vacant bottom shelf of a seed-tray greenhouse used to grow herbs, rather than have her lovely thick coat ruffled by the nasty old wind. If you're a cat, I suppose it's a great way of passing the thyme. In fact, Mary might now want to rename the sage Amy after she was caught dozing among the herbs. What about Rosemary? There's a  suggestion that will probably put the cat among the pigeons.
PS: A big thank-you to Mary for flying over and helping us out for a few days while my wife recovers. Gave me a welcome break from the cooker! True friend. 
Sister-in-law also dropped in from Sydney, via Belgium, and kept little sister amused, as well as cleaning out the goats. Cheers, Caroline.
PPS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus

Doc does the rounds in Fenland's fields of gold

Fields of red and gold: a still summer's evening in the Fens

IT'S not every day that you see a doctor driving at pace across fields during harvest time, but hey, this is the Fens.
Was it an emergency and he was taking a dramatic short-cut? All will be revealed later in the post!
Just as we get a hint of summer, it is noticeable how the days are becoming slightly shorter. But what a Fen-tastic time of year. Farmers have been putting on a sprint to gather the crops between showers as the vast fields dotted with poppies catch the eye in all their summer finery [click on the pictures and see for yourself].
We have been subject to a mixed bag, weather-wise. Today has been cool, with just the odd shower and some sunshine; yesterday, a couple of hours of sun, then thunder and heavy rain; and yet several days ago we enjoyed blue cloudless skies criss-crossed with vapour trails [contrails] and temperatures in the late 80s.
That meant opening windows in the house and hoping for a hint of breeze to keep us cool. No air conditioning for us, I'm afraid. Why fork out for an expensive piece of kit when we only suffer from the heat and humidity for a few weeks a year? That said, it's still good to get in the car and go for a blat down the lanes with the air con on full blast.

Harvest time: it has been a busy period for the farmers 

It's also wise to leave the daily dog walk until late evening when the temperature starts to drop. The pooches are more comfortable and so are you. It was on one such walk with Hector and Sweep that I saw the combine harvester, trailers and balers busy in the fields so I nipped out again later with my wife's decent camera and took a few shots. Hope you enjoy them.
While out with the camera I saw a familiar-looking car/van being driven down a track through the fields at speed ... until the driver realised he was heading straight for the combine. He slammed the vehicle into reverse, allowing the monster to go past, before continuing and then pulling up alongside me. It was the village doctor, and he casually enquired about my wife [see Friday the 13th post] in a manner which suggested we had just bumped into each other on the street, rather than amid an expanse of fields.
After giving him an update on my wife's condition, I then asked the obvious: why was he tearing about the fields in his beat-up Berlingo - the powerful BMW, along with a variety of other vehicles stayed at home on his own farm? He has an arrangement with a well-known but controversial land-owner and farmer [referred to in this blog previously as Despisely] who provides him with more than 100 bales of hay each year. The doc was simply making sure he had the right number - and that his were of the round variety [see bottom picture].
I suppose you could say our doctor was just doing his evening rounds! [Oh come on, it wasn't that bad].

PS: Please feel free to click on any adverts that may catch your eye. The Alzheimer's Society http://alzheimers.org.uk/will receive a contribution from money raised by this blog [see previous posts]. 
PPS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus

I can see for miles and miles and ... the baler sets to work

Road to nowhere: one of my routes for walking the dogs

Stop the Pigeon! Dastardly Dane plays hide and seek

Muttley: still sniggering
 Wikipedia

Come out, come out wherever you are: the gun pokes out of the
hide placed close to the "whirly" decoys

Bang! Jeez, that was a gunshot, and nearby. Bang! Another. Someone's shooting, but what's the target?
No, I'm not at a film premiere, I'm in the countryside on a grey summer's day.
I can't see anyone, so I continue to walk my dogs along a public right of way - it's a straight concrete road built by wealthy farmers and it stretches at least half a mile - through fields near our house, looking for the owner of what sounds like a double-barrel shotgun.

Game, but quiet old birds: the woodpigeon decoys

Again, more shots ring out in quick succession, and this time I see a woodpigeon tumbling from the sky. Then I spot it. Fifty yards ahead, there's a hide. It is well camouflaged and is sited snugly among reeds alongside one of the many drainage ditches which crisscross the Fens.
As I get nearer, I can see a gun poking out of the Army scrim netting and pointing skywards. There are reeds and long blades of grass covering the netting, too. And a few yards away, in a field of barley beaten down by strong wind and heavy rain, a "whirly" or pigeon magnet, with two realistic decoys, flies round slowly, while on the ground, eight decoy woodpigeons, including a "flapper" stand on the ground. They all look pretty real from my position, especially the one which flaps its wings every few seconds, mimicking the actions of a real bird.
Suddenly, a figure appears from the hide. He reveals himself to be a big guy, and I get slightly twitchy as he turns to gaze at me. He's got a gun...and he knows how to use it.
But the momentary fear passes with a smile and a friendly "hello".
I respond with a "Hi, how are you?" and I strike up a conversation with the Fens' answer to Dick Dastardy who definitely wants to Stop the Pigeon! The man's accent is foreign, but his command of English is nevertheless excellent. I ask if the farmer wants him to get rid of what are undeniably pests.

"Steve and Bob allow me to use their equipment and they have permission to shoot here," he proffered.
"I am from Denmark. We can't shoot birds until November, so I take a few days' vacation and come here."
"Really? How many times have you been here?"
"This is the third time I have been shooting here. I like it. This time, I am only here for four days."
"And how many birds have you bagged so far today?"
"It's not been a good day. Only five so far."

Just then, a distinctive and very loud, static, non-lethal gas gun went off in a nearby field and at least 50 pigeons took flight and headed our way ... before circling and landing back in the same place. I like the idea of frightening the birds away rather than killing them, but do they really work? Not on this occasion.

"I was over there this morning, but I didn't see one pigeon," said my new Danish friend. He looked sorrowful."Well, I must be off now. It looks like rain. We've had a terrible summer so far.""Yes, it has been the same in Denmark. I hope it holds off. Goodbye. Have a nice day."

With that farewell, Dastardly quickly disappeared in to the hide and the dark barrels of his gun slowly emerged, again pointing threateningly skyward. Thankfully.
I continue my walk with the dogs - should have called one of them Muttley, shouldn't I? - under heavy clouds and in a stiff breeze, before I again hear shots. I quickly look round to see that he has missed a couple of birds. They suddenly change direction and swiftly retreat from our Scandinavian visitor. Good for them, I think.
The wild Fens were subject to armed Viking raiders many centuries ago. It appears the Danes are still staging raids these days. Bound to ruffle a few feathers, wouldn't you say?
Oh, stop sniggering, Muttley.

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Hip hip hooray! She's back and ready for hip hop

That's such a relief: Tramadol tablets (Ultram)
       Wikipedia

My wife is back home after the emergency hip operation following the excellent treatment she received at Hinchingbrooke Hospital. She is loaded up with pain-killers such as Tramadol and good old Paracetamol, has to inject herself each day with Clexane to prevent clotting, and takes Adcal (calcium and vitamin D) tablets, plus a weekly dose of Alendronic Acid to counter the effects of osteoporosis. Then there's her daily dose of Levothyroxine [thyroid trouble may have resulted in weakening of her bones] and you can see why she almost rattles as she hauls herself slowly - and painfully - to the toilet on her newly-acquired crutches. I suppose it's a new take on hip hop.
The village GP was immediately on the case when he learned of the accident and has set up support visits, and he even dropped in at ours to make sure everything was OK. A no-nonsense district nurse has already been in ["coffee, strong, three sugars please"] to change the dressing on the wound and, as is the case with the modern NHS, she had to fill in mountains of paperwork.

My wife is still sleeping [??] downstairs on a large sofa because the stairs are a little too much to tackle at the moment and she becomes frustrated at her helplessness.

But she is delighted that her operation scar will be very small and neat. The skin is held together by 12 clips after three cannulated screws were inserted into her broken hip by adept surgeon Mr Thornton-Bott. He certainly eased many of my wife's fears before and after the operation, and she has nothing but good things to say about the consultant and the caring hospital staff.
She's gets a little bored, because reading, sitting with the laptop [iPad broken] or watching a TV programme requires a degree of concentration which is difficult to muster when you're in a degree of pain, but things are beginning to improve. Crosswords are now being tackled, meals are being eaten and instructions about general housekeeping are being issued - in a nice way, of course.
She also looks forward to the late morning calls from her sister who lives in Sydney [they should be in the Guinness Book of Records for longest, long-distance calls] and the phone chats with her good friend from Carlow in Ireland. They met while training to be nurses three decades ago and remain the best of pals. Then there's the odd call from other friends and relatives to keep her occupied, while our immediate neighbour has also been very kind.
Mum-in-law was completely confused and befuddled by the whole episode, and somewhat distressed about Jane's situation, and she happily returned to the care home for a few weeks while Jane gets back on her feet [no pun intended, but we need a bit of a break].

"I'm not here forever, am I?" she asked when I dropped her off. 

"It's just a short holiday, isn't it?"

I gave her plenty of reassurances, as did the staff, and she seemed more than happy with the answers, before dishing out kisses to me, a lovely carer and a delighted old chap on crutches.
We have no qualms about leaving mum-n-law there for a short period. Staff at The Firs in Little Downham near Ely are pleasant and seem well trained, and they are certainly very capable and understanding when it comes to dealing with people who suffer from Alzheimer's disease.
All the animals are fine, too, although Sweep is a little puzzled because he can't get too close to my wife for fear of catching her hip or leg, but Hector is so laidback about the the goings on in his house - yes, Hector's House. He's a silly old Hector.
The goats remain playful, the hens are as inquisitive as ever, and the bantams are getting noticeably bigger as they settle in to their new environment.
Must dash. Chores to be done. Off to prepare lunch.
Life's certainly not boring in this part of the Fens...

Why Friday the 13th turned into one long nightmare

Pain: X-ray image of a hip, with top of femur broken
 Wikipedia

One for sorrow: barbed wire that did for the magpie
 Wikipedia

Friday the 13th. Who is really bothered? Just a superstition, eh? A date for avoiding black cats, something for the horror movie-makers to get their teeth into, nothing more.
Well, as I write this post on Saturday, July 14 at 2.30 in the morning, I am tempted to disagree. That's because my wife is now in post-op care following an emergency operation to repair a broken hip. I am waiting to find out how she is, if the operation went OK. It's an anxious time.
Yesterday started out well, as we joked about 13 being an unlucky number and Friday supposedly being an unlucky day. Staying in bed instead of risking all that the 13th could throw at us wasn't really an option, though. We have work to do, animals to care for and a mother-in-law who needs attention so the day unfolded without too much thought about the date. That is until I took the dogs for a walk.
Then I came across a Magpie in distress. It had landed on a barbed wire fence and the wire had gone right through one of its feet. When I approached to try to help, it tried to fly off, but was unable to because it was basically trapped by the wire. I don't know how long it had been there but it looked tired yet, unusually for a Magpie, it was silent. I backed away and it stopped flapping its wings madly, so I took the dogs straight back home and immediately called the RSPCA who promised to send out one of their officers.
They were true to their word. Two hours later, I received a call from the well-meaning officer who said the bird had died. The bird's body was on the ground, it's foot still on the barbed wire.

"I'm very sorry, sir. There was nothing I could do," he assured me. "It was dead when I arrived. These things happen, I'm afraid. But thank you so much for telling us. You did the right thing."

I'll admit that I felt physically sick, but I can't commend the RSPCA highly enough for their response and their care. What a brilliant charity. donations.rspca.org.uk/247
So the day wasn't going too well after all, and I'll admit that the dreaded date did cross my mind. As I was mulling over these dark thoughts, I heard a crash and a cry from outside the back door. As I rushed out I could see my wife trying to climb to her feet, in terrible pain. She had stepped on to wet decking and slipped without being able to break her fall and landed on her hip. She is only a slip of a lass, weighing way under nine stone, but the impact was such that she fractured her bone. She was in so much pain.
I managed to get her on to a chair, not knowing at that stage that she had a fracture. But it soon became apparent that she needed medical help so we called the hospital and they suggested we take her to accident and emergency [A&E]. My wife wanted to change, but that proved extremely difficult and we couldn't leave mum-in-law at home on her own, either. Indeed, she took some cajoling to get ready to go out with us. I gave the animals their tea early and locked them all away for an early night before addressing the problem of trying to get my wife into my car.
The pain was such than it was nigh on impossible, so we called the hospital who suggested we ring emergency services. I duly dialled 999 and was given assurances that help was on its way. More than  an hour passed, without any help arriving and I called 999 again, only to be told the case was not considered life-threatening. However, he changed his attitude when I informed him about the excruciating hip and leg pain and I was then told it would now be treated as an emergency and an ambulance would be on its way. I asked how long that would be, he couldn't say. In  desperation I told him we would make our own way so he "stood down" the said ambulance.
By this time, my brave lady had somehow managed to get both legs onto the rear seat and seemed more concerned about the neighbours hearing her distress than her own plight.
I drove very slowly for 20 miles across the bumpy Fen roads as my wife tried gamely to stop crying out in pain [see Road Rage post] while my mum-in-law kept scratching her head and asking repeatedly where we were going and why was her daughter in so much pain, despite being given an answer on each occasion.
Fortunately, the staff were absolutely brilliant as soon as we arrived at Hinchingbrooke Hospital, and after a difficult exit from the car, my wife was whisked away to A&E. Several hours later, after numerous tests and then X-rays, she was told by impressive surgeon Paul Thornton-Bott - it helps to have a classy name if you're good - she had broken her hip and needed an emergency operation within 12 hours. Speed was of the essence to give the healing process a fighting chance. She needed her fracture pinning rather than have a hip replacement because she is too young to go down the latter route.
I waited with my wife until she was about to go in to the operating theatre and I have since brought a distressed mum-in-law back home. We made a little detour to an all-night supermarket on the outskirts of Huntingdon to get a few essentials in case my wife is hospitalised for a few days, but mum-in-law has now been fed, has had a couple of drinks of tea and has toddled off to bed. She will quickly forget what happened and will soon drift off to sleep in the land of nowhere particular, a place frequently visited by suffers of Alzheimer's. http://alzheimers.org.uk
The dogs, who were fed before we left, went beserk when we returned but they, too, have settled down to sleep so I am going to make that call to find out how my other half is faring. Fingers crossed. Touch wood [not in the American way, you understand].
Superstitious? Me?

UPDATE: My wife was admitted to her hospital ward at 3am and the operation went well. She requested a spinal injection rather than general anaesthetic and was sipping tea not so long ago. More news soon. I'll keep you posted ... whoever you are.