It effectively stuffs up your plans for the week, any thoughts of getting ahead with the ever-increasing job list goes straight out of the window.
Our dining room which doubles up as Paul’s office quickly becomes a hive of activity. Not being the best of bookkeepers, stress levels and frayed tempers soon rise and John-William and I beat a hasty retreat.
Following the phone call informing us we were to have an inspection Paul spent hours with his slightly more organised cousin checking and double checking his paperwork.
John-William and I returned that evening to find every surface covered in piles of movement licences, diaries and countless bits of scribbled notes.
“Don’t touch a thing” he barked. “Don’t sit there, don’t move that, in fact just don’t come in here.”
John-William froze in the doorway, unsure as to whether or not he dared navigate his way through the organised chaos. He glanced across at his father and decided not to chance it.
Some time later we cautiously opened the door, hoping it was safe to enter. He was sat back in his chair, brew in hand and despite spending next to no time in his office, he’d somehow managed to stay on top of his paperwork and was confident all was in order.
Whilst having a tidy up I came across a small package addressed to myself. It’s rare we ever get any nice post, just bills and junk mail.
I’ve no idea how long the parcel had been buried under piles of ignored post and Classic Tractor magazines. Inside was a beautifully made string of bunting and a note saying the sender hoped it would make me smile, brighten my day. It certainly did!
I’d seen many posts on social media about the illusive bunting fairy sending her lovingly made craft to people.
Judging by those lucky enough to receive one, clearly it’s someone ‘horsey’, a fellow breeder and lover of the Welsh breeds. For now she, or of course he, remains anonymous. In a world of division and anger, constant media-fed negativity, this gesture has been a reminder that there are many thoughtful, compassionate people out there, who genuinely care.
After years of struggling with old rusty gates hanging forlornly from broken hinges, Paul has finally invested in some new ones. A bright shiny new gate on both top and bottom underpass greeted me one evening.
So you can imagine my despair to find not only our cows were out one morning but that they were all huddled tightly in the underpass.
They’d come at such speed the gate had been the only thing to stop their frantic dash for home. It had done well to stand it’s ground but was bent and buckled.
The cows were returned to their field and the newly-shaped gate suddenly looked right at home!