The Weasel gets caught out again!

Mrs BW and I were having a Sandwich in the Dome and passing the time of day. We were joined by Mark, who does a similar job to me. As is usual the conversation drifted onto the children. Mark has two lads and the eldest is in the same year and at the same school as the Weasel. He was remarking about how much home work they got in year ten. Mrs BW bristled at this intelligence. We have been having a series of discussions with the W about her homework, or more precisely the lack if it. She claims that she does it at school, which Mrs BW as an ex teacher, finds hard to believe. The discussions have at times become heated and involved a lot of stomping off, door slamming and occasionally shouting. A letter a few days ago informing us the school required the Weasels company after school to do a detention so she could catch up on some course work seemed to have undermined her defense. Mrs BW explained this to Mark, who after a thoughtful mouthful said, "Well you can tell how she is getting on by her tracking report. The recent one, the one that they were given a few weeks ago." Mrs BW and I exchanged glances. We had received no tracking report. It was agreed that I would raise the subject when she came home.

"So where is your tracking report?" I said a few hours later when she came home from school. She gave me the blank look that she reserves for difficult questions. "Your tracking report! The one you were given a few weeks ago!" The light went on. "Oh that, its up stairs in my room."

"Well it shouldn't be, we need to see it, go and get it and bring it down please."

She brought it down. I stared at it. As usual it made no sense to me. "Better go and show it mum "I said, "she understands it."

She sighed and went slowly up the stairs.

A Load of Bullocks

I picked my way carefully across the farm yard. It was littered with debris of various sorts. I had hidden the elderly Toyota behind a newish 4x4. There were several other newish cars in the yard and from a low squat building I could hear the low gentle murmur of chickens. My heart sank a little bit further. I knocked on the door of the newish farmhouse. Next to it the original was collapsing in on itself as building stone crumbled and gave way to various types of vegetation. The door opened, and Chris greeted me and thrust out a worn and hard worked hand. I shook it and stepped inside. Somehow the inside of the house was more chaotic and tumbled down than the yard and the buildings outside. I realised that by comparison we lived at Birdwatcher Mansions in luxury. The house had that cold damp unheated feel, there were no carpets, and no curtains. The light bulbs hung down bare and institutional from the ceiling.

We started the meeting. I pride myself on my ability to listen and to be a good listener but on this occasion, perhaps wary of my surroundings and having just noticed that the jumble of empty containers and rubbish that I could see through the hatch way was in fact the kitchen, I found that I had ignored the first bit of what Chris had been saying. I resurfaced so to speak on the unsteadying words " only about three million sperm"

I must have looked like a recently landed fish as I gulped at him, trying to think of something intelligent to say. "Um well okay, perhaps we could just clarify that then. You're saying that basically......." My voice trailed off.

A wry smile flickered across his face. "The key to it is sexed semen" he said and paused briefly before adding "By sexing it you get a 90% chance that you will get a heifer." I tried to look as if this information meant something to me. I think I failed. No I know I failed because I then said "Heifers, ah so your into beef cattle then." "You're not the agricultural adviser are you?" He said this with out any malice, just a sort of world weariness, a sort of what the hell have they sent me this time.

I confessed that I wasn't. He started to explain to me about Heifers and dairy farming. Outside someone in dirty overalls shuffled across the fields to some hen houses. At the window a face appeared, glanced at me and bobbed down. I saw the top of a woolly hat creep away. In the kitchen someone reached into what I suppose was a fridge and taking out a large chicken carcass began hacking bits off it. I wanted to go home. I would have to do some research, but dreaded to think what Google would come up with if I put "sexed semen" in the search engine. I would have to find out though, all in the interest of research of course. I smiled to myself!

Surely Some Mistake

The Weasel as part of her campaign to keep Mrs BW and I entertained has been insisting that we ask her general knowledge questions during "tea". Having exhausted current affairs, I casually asked her who the first British woman Prime Minster was. "Thatcher" came the swift reply. As we had just done modern politically parties, I followed up with "and what political party was she leader of" She thought for a moment. "Labour" she said. There was a silence, followed by the sound of Mrs BW's jaw hitting the table.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Morning

We woke to a couple of inches of snow on Easter Sunday. Snow fall has a magic effect on the teenagers. They are transformed from lazy,idle "stop in beds" and actually get up before midday. Breakfast was a rushed affair, the sledges were dusted off from the garage and we set off for a walk. Whilst the kinder took their sledges up to Temple Fields, Mrs BW and I went to Grinlow Woods.



All sorts of images spring to mind when I walk these woods in the snow. Robert Frost's poem of course, but mainly I think of the Wild Wood and the Mole getting lost in the snow.



He gets found by the Rat and they spend a comfortable night at Mr Badger's place before going onto Mr Toad's to meddle and interfere in his affairs. The woods are usually full of bird song and today is no exception. Up in the higher part of the canopy Great Tits and Blue Tits call to their respective mates, whilst on the ground a wren flits about in its constant search for food.

A dog called Ben, we'd met him and his owner earlier, catches up with us and offers us his stick. He wants us to throw it for him and tempting though it is, we resist and eventually he dashes of back down the path to check that his owner is okay.

After a while we emerge from the woods and the slightly claustrophobic feel. The views are worth the effort, especially in the snow.



We stroll up to the folly known as Solomon's Temple and stopping briefly to look at the town spread out below, and of course to spot our house, we head off back down through the woods. We meet up with the Munch and the Weasel at the Cafe at Poole's Cavern and after hot chocolate topped with cream and apple pie head off for home. There is a brief moment of panic when Mrs BW cannot find the keys to the front door. We search through pockets and bags and find nothing. " I suppose you locked the door" I say and just as Mrs BW is about to protest at the unfairness of the accusation, I try the handle. The door opens and the key is there safe in the lock on the inside. I say nothing, and suggest that I will make lunch.

Mrs BW puts on a brave face

Mrs BW and I left the kids in their beds and braving the biting wind, set off for a stroll round the Goyt. The Curlews have been back for at least a week now (probably longer) so we thought we would go and have a listen. The wind was too strong however and the only sighting was of a pair that flew close to the hillside behind a ridge avoiding the wind with that characteristic slightly chaotic flight that they have. We tramped alone together up the steep slope that leads to the disused railway track and managed to find a sheltered spot out of the wind. We sipped tea and were rewarded by the call of a solitary curlew somewhere down in the valley. We walked briskly back to the car trying to keep warm as the wind found all the little uncovered spots. A kestrel braved the wind to hunt, but I guess it has no choice as no hunting means starvation. On the way home we popped into the supermarket to get somethings for lunch.

I though that given the time of the year this poem had a sort of appropriateness. Its by Philip Larkin from The Whitsun Weddings, published in 1954.

Water

If I were called in

To construct a religion

I should make use of water

Going to Church

Would entail a fording

To dry, different clothes;

My liturgy would employ

Images of sousing

A furious devout drench,

And I should raise in the east

A glass of water

Where any-angled light

Would congregate endlessly.

No Curlews in the Goyt - Yet!

The Goyt is silent. I am waiting for the curlews to return. I wish they would hurry up. I need to hear them again. The winter, though not harsh or very cold has dragged on in a mainly grey and wet soggy sort of way and its time for a change. Maybe they will be back this weekend? I hope so.