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