Boys will be boys, will be boys…oy…oys

Ye Gods, it has been yonks since I last sat down at the keyboard and wrote something memorable – no, just something – for this blog. And why’s that? I hear you ask in a slightly bored tone. Well my excuse is complex. For a start, it has been horribly wet and I’ve had to get all the sheep in from the fields – somehow. And that has taken quite a lot of work, what with clearing stuff from the two barns and liberating hurdles from less essential tasks. Then there has been the final copy-edit of The Lifers’ Club, which I’m delighted to say is now fully finished and ready for the mighty printing presses. There has also been my book for Penguin Press, which is finished, but in need of some final tweaks, to make it more marketable (and me, fabulously RICH!). Oh yes, and I’ve also been doing duty as Maisie’s photographer, taking dozens, no hundreds of pictures of pieces of prehistoric waterlogged wood. Then on Wednesday Maisie and I went to the fabulous exhibition at the British Library, Georgians Revealed: Life, Style and the Making of Modern Britain. It was SUBERB! And well done to everyone concerned. I was delighted to see Ade Teal’s book Gin Lane Gazette selling briskly in the bookshop afterwards, where I also encountered Lucy Inglis’s first popular book, Georgian London: Into the Streets, which looks like a damn good read. By some weird coincidence, on Monday, tomorrow, when I ought to be getting on with other things, I’ll be holding forth to a group of sceptical people about prehistoric booze-ups, at Blacks Club, of all places, in darkest Soho. God knows what I’ll talk about (hang-overs in the Epi-Palaeolithic?). The event is organised by Ade Teal and the other speaker is Lucy Inglis. Coincidence, or what? And there’s a free scrummy supper at the end of it all. I ask you, how do I cope? What sheer Hell; what utter misery. Why do I do it? Can’t thing, but anyhow: why justify when you can digress?

So what am I going to write about now: Georgian Britain? Wet sheep? No: old tractors. On Boxing Day. And that’s what I love about England: things just sort of happen because that’s what people want – and with no hype, publicity or propaganda. A group of tractor enthusiasts from Holbeach decided to go for a run, and they stopped off in Sutton St. James, alongside the Church (and outside the butcher and home-made meat pie shop). They told me the run was meant to be for Fordsons only, but I noted at least half the tractors were Fergies. As the man said: ‘Made no sense to tell ‘em not to come along too. Cheers!’ Then he took a Fen-sized bite from a steaming meat pie.


Tractors in the street

Tractors outside Church

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