Fenland fiddle-faddle

Fruits of our labour

2015-03-27T12:01:00.002+00:00

Job advert from media industry:

Salary £18-20K a year (Mmm, part-time?)

Excellent benefits package (OK, tell me more)

Free parking (At least better than a meter in the Borough of Westminster)

Lunch on us once a month (Fancy Italian restaurant or butty and cold drink from M&S?)

Fresh fruit every day (Two seedless grapes a day...well, that's a clincher).

A&E: Alzheimer's and an emergency trip to Cambridge

2014-12-30T23:23:00.000+00:00

Another disconcerting visit to Addenbrooke's Hospital in Cambridge earlier on this freezing winter night. Mother-in-law, the subject of many previous posts, was admitted to the huge complex yesterday as the decline in her health begins to accelerate. Alzheimer's is most certainly taking a firm grip.

TESTING TIMES: Addenbrooke's Hospital, Cambridge Photo: BBC

She now lives in a care home in the village of Little Downham, little more than a short hop and jump from the cathedral "city" of Ely where she receives round-the-clock-care from dedicated, amiable, hard-working staff. Despite their efforts, accidents are bound to happen and sure enough, last week, on Christmas Eve, mum-in-law had a fall. It was not serious in itself and a thorough check by the GP revealed no breaks or even bruising, although he did suspect she was suffering from a UTI. No need for the hospital, he said. That would only add to her obvious confusion. A course of strong antibiotics should do the trick.

But her behaviour has altered significantly of late; her speech is becoming more slurred, the words she so desperately seeks cannot be conjured, her once-brisk walk has been reduced to a mere shuffle and everyday tasks are becoming increasingly difficult. Why fumble with a fork at the table if your fingers will suffice? Not all the time, you understand, but more and more often, and the frustration simmers.

The tipping point occurred when she deliberately took to the floor of her room after refusing food and drink. She then flatly refused assistance and began to threaten the staff who were patiently trying to cajole and coax her to her feet. No point. She was not going to cooperate. After a call to ours, it was decided that the paramedics should intervene. A trip to Addenbrooke's A&E followed and she was then formally admitted on to a ward for the elderly where innumerable tests and scans have been carried out in an attempt to discover if there is an underlying disease in addition to the dreaded Alzheimer's which is largely responsible for her decline. The brilliant NHS staff suspect not, but they need to be certain.

The good news is that mum-in-law shares a bay on the ward with a chirpy lady from Witchford who is compos mentis. No long silences there. Furthermore, m-i-l actually recognised her daughter tonight and remembered her name. We shall see what tomorrow brings.

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Bewitched by Fenland on the eve of Halloween

2014-10-30T17:55:00.001+00:00

FIELD OF VISION: Why walking the dogs on an Autumn evening in the Cambridgeshire Fens is such an enjoyable experience. Click on the picture and see for yourself. A setting sun, stunning sky, distant silhouettes, and, of course, a hint of mist and mystery. Bring on Halloween.

Meet the Fenland Photobomber ...Our Reg was here

2014-08-08T22:29:00.004+01:00

FOCUSED: Reg's inquisitive nature seems to be helping him
develop a talent for unwittingly appearing in photos

MEET the Fenland photobomber, alias our Reg, the pygmy goat. After I sidled up to the paddock fence to get a quick snap of our sheepish newcomers, Dolly and Summer, this inquisitive face suddenly appeared. Reg doesn't exactly have Hollywood A-lister looks, but his mummy still loves him. The cheeky chappy was therefore in sharp focus while the intended subjects became blurred objects when I took the picture. Reg here reminds me of the cartoon character my dad used to draw when I was a kid. He was called Kilroy (the character, not my dad) and his nose was poking over a wall (the character, not ...).

WIKIPEDIA
Photobombing is the act of accidentally or purposely putting oneself into the view of a photograph, often in order to play a practical joke on the photographer or the subjects.^[1] Photobombing has received significant coverage since 2009.^[2] In discussing a "stingray photobomb" picture that went viral, Andrea DenHoed suggests that the photobomb label "implies a narrative of surreptitious sabotage,"^[2] although in the sense of unintended and/or initially unnoticed people in the background of spoiled photographs, photobombs have existed for much of the history of photography.

He nose, you know: Cartoon courtesy of WIKIPEDIA

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Roast dinners? Ewe must be joking

2014-08-08T21:51:00.000+01:00

QUALITY CONTROL: The sheep check out their new grass
just minutes after arriving in a kind neighbour's horsebox

JUST a quickie. Here are our latest additions. Sheep. Let's hear it for Dolly (mum) and Summer, all the way from a picturesque and historic village near the lovely town of Olney in Buckinghamshire. They are Babydoll Miniature Southdowns with an impeccable pedigree and are definitely not on any future menu. Great wool, though. More to follow in a few days but, in the meantime, a couple of pictures to show how quickly they have settled in to their new surroundings. Please excuse the haphazard layout of photos. Out of my hands, I'm afraid.

STABLEMATES: Dolly and Summer in purpose-built home

Brazil World Cup 2014: Why Rio's right to kick off about England hate mob

2014-06-21T00:38:00.000+01:00

ENGLAND PASSION: The talented Rio Ferdinand Wikipedia

ENGLAND FALL GUY: Manager Roy Hodgson Wikipedia

ENGLAND are out of the Brazil World Cup 2014. Surprised? Well, no, of course not.
There are some great jokes flying around but the nation still finds it hard to hide the disappointment. Eliminated at the group stage for the first time since 1958.
But anyone who follows football realised Roy Hodgson had a good young, inexperienced squad with defensive frailties. And in view of this significant fact, it was obvious England were never going to be world-beaters no matter how much, how often or how hard we dreamed those sweet dreams of triumph. Roy's boys just weren't up to it and therefore did not earn the right to progress despite two tight games.
Even the drunken morons raucously belting out ancient football chants during my tedious train journey home from London last night, just a few hours after that Luis Suarez-inspired defeat which condemned England, would have known this.
So why the usual, sad, sometimes distasteful clamour for change, sackings, etc., and the hate mob's desperate need to blame in certain newspapers, on the web, TV and in social media?
I'll tell you why. Despite all the bilge about low expectations before a ball was even kicked in anger, some people just can't help themselves when it comes to any easy target, a rehashed story and screaming headline proclaiming the same nonsense that was regurgitated after previous World Cup exploits. Formatted rubbish. Shocking headlines are designed to grab attention. Read me, this is interesting, it's news, it's informative, it might even be amusing. But many headlines can turn out to be ill-conceived rubbish aimed at the lowest common denominator.
Some sections of the media treat the national sport with intelligence and adopt a different attitude - I include tabloids in this - by dissecting, thoughtfully analysing, coming up with constructive proposals and encouraging sensible discussions that may establish platforms on which to develop a stronger, successful national setup. But other sections - you know who you are - couldn't give a damn and revert to type. Same old, same old. Easy pickings.
The manager is building a new team, with a different approach and has probably made some mistakes. Not taking at least one very experienced defender, for a start. But give him time. And don't say the squad are a bunch of overpaid oiks who show no passion. Can't beat a good cliche, eh? See what the wealthy, but talented former England defender, Rio Ferdinand, has to say on that controversial subject.

Rio Ferdinand on Twitter: Loads saying no pride no passion....the boys didn't try, r u saying? Rubbish. We just wasn't up to it. Nothing to do with pride & passion.

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Please click here

2014-05-14T22:43:00.001+01:00

PLEASE click on any of the adverts that appear on this blog. By doing so you are helping to generate a small amount of money which can then be used in the battle with Alzheimer's Disease. It's a worthy cause, so get clicking as well as reading. Cheers.

PS: R.I.P. Stephen Sutton. A genuine inspiration to people of all ages.

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Giving an owl centre the bird

2014-05-08T22:36:00.000+01:00

COULDN'T GIVE TWO HOOTS: By George,
it's George the Indian Eagle Owl

I'M going to ruffle a few feathers. I feel very uncomfortable about wild birds in cages. It seems so cruel.
Visited the Baytree Owl and Wildlife Centre at Weston near Spalding in Lincolnshire a few days ago and really felt as though the £3 I paid to get in would have been better spent elsewhere.
Yes, I was able to see some beautiful owls and birds of prey close up, but was it worth it? I don't think so. Apart from an impressive Secretary Bird which strode purposefully up and down an enclosure, the other birds were kept in cages too small for them to do what is natural to them and fly a reasonable distance.
The 'cells' definitely could not be described as aviaries, which by definition are large enclosures. And all the birds looked so miserable. It was a feeling that certainly rubbed off ... although I didn't fly into a rage!

George, the Indian Eagle Owl - a native of India, Pakistan, Nepal and Burma - according to the spiel on his cage, was a case in point. His natural habitat is wooded hillsides, areas of bushy scrub and semi desert (or dessert as suggested by the notice on his cage). I suspect our sad-looking George would struggle to find any of the above in the sprawling expanse of the Lincolnshire Fens ... if he is lucky enough to venture out of his cage, of course.

And a young Common Kestrel seemed desperate to take flight. He didn't appear to have a name but for the purposes of this post we'll call him Kes. That classic didn't have a happy ending either.

Poor Kes just clung to the top of his enclosure peering into the distance.

OK, there are some lucky birds which do get to do what they are meant to do during flying demonstrations, but I suspect they are in a minority here.
And while they appear well cared for in terms of food and shelter, I can't help get the feeling that most of these birds are there simply for profit rather than preservation.
Bird conservation is hugely important and I am sure that Baytree's own breeding programme will ensure that some species will not die out. But when a project is limited to the confines of a large popular garden centre then the doubts creep in.

PS: Mother-in-law seemed in fine spirits today but sadly, her powers of speech are fast dwindling. She didn't know who I was and confused my wife with her sister. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease.

NB: Please remember that by clicking on the adverts on this blog you are helping to make a contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking ...

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PREY, WHAT IS THIS? It's Kes the Kestrel

NO COMPANY FOR SECRETARY: This bird
struts its stuff in a larger enclosure

Farmers, firearms, dead Dachshunds and armed police - just another day in The Fens

2014-04-28T20:42:00.000+01:00

Farmer threatened my dogs with a shotgun then left my Dachshund dead under wheels of his van: Financier claims his puppies were attacked in a row over trespassing.

THESE are headlines from the Daily Mail's website, Mail Online, the world's biggest news website. Fenland has been thrust into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons - and all because of the actions of a man who has been terrorising villagers for decades.

The Mail are sometimes accused of getting it wrong. Not this time. They are bang on. Down the years, the farmer in question - referred to in an earlier post as Despisely - has verbally and physically threatened people; he has driven at them and some claim he has knocked them over; more menacingly, he has threatened to shoot dogs and basically tries to turn the clock back to medieval England every time he sees a dog walker on or close to one of the bridleways which crisscross his land. Land used for growing crops, not rearing livestock.

SURVIVOR: Mr Bojangles was the lucky to survive an attack
by the farmer ... not so his sibling, Misty.

I have no hesitation in making these statements without so much as an alleged because he has threatened me, driven at me and my wife and once even winged her with his car as he tried to run over our then Labrador puppy.

So to learn he had killed a Dachshund, not the fiercest of dogs, and injured another came as no surprise. In fact, even he is not disputing he killed the dog. OK, so people with dogs sometimes do stray into areas technically forbidden to the public in the village, but they do no damage, mean no harm and go quietly about their business. Unlike Despisely who completely loses his temper. Fortunately, this short-fused old man no longer has his deadly firearms.

I became aware of the shocking incident while walking my dogs when I came across several laminated posters. At that stage one dog had been killed and the other had disappeared in the fields, injured. It really was was a stomach-churning moment to read the harsh facts after all the run-ins I and so many other people have had with this farmer. Fortunately, the lost dog was soon found although he was slightly injured... nowhere near this spot.

Both sides of this sordid tale involving firearms, dead animals, police armed with TASER guns are told in the weblink below. Armed police arrived, an arrest was made but no charges were laid. Bearing in mind what I have already mentioned, please believe me when I say one person's story is complete tosh. Furthermore, please read the subheading about farmer's rights. Farmers are only permitted to kill dogs on their land if they have sound reasons for believing livestock would be threatened. This, by the way, is on arable land although to be fair, Despisely does have a pig-breeding unit by his house at the other side of the village.

However, I understand he has a piece of land the locals refer to as the reservoir, which he sets to one side for wildlife and birds, hence his claims that the dog walker was 'hunting for egrets'. Absolutely laughable. Presumably this well-meaning farmer, who looks like an amiable grandfather, receives a grant for this piece of land, a sort of mini reserve. No surprise there, then. So to be outraged when people walk along the reservoir with their dogs would be reasonable, you might think. But wait; the same person also allows trusties to fish there, to swim there and for relatives to party on the banks. Indeed, a jetty, a couple of canoes (and empty beer bottles) do give the game away somewhat. Wonder if he would be entitled to that grant if the authorities knew about such shenanigans?

The link is:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2609574/Miniature-dachshund-puppy-run-killed-pig-farmer-dog-walking-row.html

or simply Google pig farmer dead Dachshund etc.

The following is from a draft I began writing a year ago after several fresh run-ins with Despisely which forced me to believe his behaviour could lead to serious trouble. I haven't altered a word about this wretched man:

SOME folk do their best to spoil the Fens. Why? Because they are a law unto themselves. This is not an uncommon trait in these parts. Take, for example, an ageing, eccentric but very rich farmer who falls out with just about everyone in this village.

Walking a dog in certain areas can be a fearful experience because he simply threatens you if you dare stray off a public path or bridleway that may cut across the vast swathes of land he either owns or rents. The same land he allows his relatives or associates to use.

We have a stretch of water referred to as the reservoir. It was created to store water which can then be used in time of drought. This used to be a popular spot for some dog walkers, but not now.

One couple tell of the time he took a gun out of his van and threatened to shoot their dog if he saw them again. He clipped my wife on a leg when he drove straight at us some years ago while we were walking down the edge of a field and often drives straight at me because I take offence at the way he bullies people. Hence, the reason for my contempt.

Others tell of arguments, threats, his bad-mouthed insults. Indeed, his grasp of profanity is second to none and, when we see each other, he invariably opens an exchange of pleasantries ...

PS: And now for something completely different. Follow Stephen's Story on Twitter and dig into your pockets.

PPS: Mother-law continues her steady decline as the horrifying grip of Alzheimer's becomes stronger with each passing week. She now finds it difficult to walk with ease, she struggles with her speech, doesn't always remember the names of close relatives ... and the dead are still very much alive in her confused mind.

NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking ...

Final tribute to our Martha and the Vandellas

2014-03-04T22:28:00.001+00:00

HAPPY DAYS: Martha and her backing group

FENMAN can reveal that Martha and the Vandellas are officially no more. Ruby, the last remaining member and probably the noisest of the trio of old hens, joined that great coop in the sky very early today after a short illness.

She was suffering from sour crop, an illness quite common in poultry. She suddenly became quiet and slowly went off her food. Not a good sign in her case.

I won't go into all the details, but suffice to say my wife and I battled for more than a week to keep her alive. Tonic in water, glucose and layers mash in organic yoghurt administered with syringes, extra bedding, lots of tlc, etc. We even tried krill oil, recommended by many people, but all to no avail. She seemed to rally at the weekend when we thought her crop had finally emptied but despite an afternoon in the warm sunshine yesterday, she passed away in the night. She will be fondly remembered, especially for those summer days when she would jump up to join us as we sat on one of the garden benches.

Martha and the Vandellas have a great back catalogue of photos and we will always remember that it was Martha who helped kickstart this menagerie of ours when she walked into our kitchen. See post We'll miss Martha - and so will the Vandellas (23/03/13).

RIP Martha, Mrs Pepperpot and Ruby who are buried outside the duck compound. Dancing in the Street they are not. Perhaps Nowhere to Run is now more apt. Brilliant song, check it out on YouTube.

NB: Please remember that by clicking (no clucking please) on the adverts on this blog you are helping to make a contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking ...

Suffering in silence: dementia and deafness

2014-02-20T00:35:00.000+00:00

NOW HEAR THIS: The missing components Wikipedia

"I DON'T know what he's saying but you really shouldn't listen to him," she rasped, pointing a crooked finger at me. "He's not my husband, you know. He is NOT my husband. He isn't. He wants to put me away. That's why he brought me here. I am NOT bonkers. Look here, I know it's Sunday today (it was Wednesday) so that just proves it, doesn't it? But I'm here because he brought me ... and I don't go to church on Sundays. Hah, hah, hah!" The sentence trailed off with an uncomfortable cackle.

That's how my tired mother-in-law's audiology appointment began as we took our seats next to a startled hearing specialist at the Princess of Wales Hospital in Ely. For those not in the know, m-in-l has Alzheimer's Disease, her husband has been dead for four years and we were at the hospital for a hearing check because she had lost her hearing aid. Ordinarily, she is confused; without the ear piece, she really is a lost soul because she has no idea what is happening around her and her tinnitus is more marked.

Understandably, a great deal goes missing when people suffer from dementia. And the problem is compounded in a home where most residents are suffering from severe memory loss. So to lose/misplace/hide a pair of spectacles or a hearing aid is not unusual, although such items frequently turn up in somebody else's room, pocket or handbag. Indeed, my wife once came across the following in one of her mum's handbags when searching for a pair of missing glasses: three pairs of tights, two pairs of knickers, a toothbrush, two tubes of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a hairbrush, chopsticks and part of old school report from way back when. No specs, but yes, it was a large handbag with a nickname: the Bermuda Triangle.

The 10-minute trip to the hospital gave no indication of the outburst outlined earlier. M-in-l had appeared pleased to see me when I picked her up from the care home and she eventually remembered my name. But she seemed extremely tired, looking even older than her 85 years.

The weather was grim, again, with strong Fenland winds and persistent rain, yet inside the car and inside her own bubble, she happily chattered away. No response to my questions, of course, because she couldn't hear, so I resorted to leaning over and yelling in her right ear to make myself heard. And even then she didn't always catch what was said.

"It's Wednesday today."
"Yes dear, it is windy."
And so on ...

We eventually found a parking space close to the hospital's main reception and managed to shuffle our way through puddles, over the pedestrian crossing to the entrance doors, as she ranted and raged about the foul day. Not quite Lear - Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! - but her mood now certainly matched the weather as her paranoia developed.

Once inside, we discovered the grille had been pulled down, no receptionist, no explanation. Very confusing and somewhat difficult to check in. Even harder to explain what was going on to an angry elderly deaf lady who has Alzheimer's.

We edged our way into a waiting area and an efficient-looking woman suddenly appeared. She had some sort of identification tag around her neck so I showed her our appointment form, enquired about audiology and she kindly pointed us in the right direction. It was a matter of eight or nine yards further on in the large waiting area, doors to rooms on all sides, with hand-written notices pinned to them. Good to see the NHS embracing modern technology. Audiology Room 101.

Fortunately, we did not have to wait. After m-in-l's initial panic, she began to realise her fears were unfounded and it was nothing more sinister than a hearing test. I was suddenly one of the good guys again and the foul day was forgotten. The test itself was by no means accurate, as the patient hearing expert was anxious to point out, and at times it descended into farce as the audiologist scribbled notes which m-in-l was unable to read, or I shouted into m-in-l's left ear in vain attempt to relay instructions.

"Just press the button when you hear any sort of noise."
"What did you say?"
"Just press the button."
"This? Press this? Why do you want me to press this?"

The test went ahead without the use of the button. Instead, the audiologist relied on m-in-l's facial expressions or her verbal reactions when she heard a sound. Later, a putty-like substance was inserted into an ear while a mould was taken.

The good news is that a new hearing aid will be fitted next week and this time the NHS will provide us with a spare. They will also retain the mould so we do not have to go through this rigmarole again.

It was trying, tiring and confusing for m-in-law, but a necessary evil because she really does suffer without a digital hearing aid. Her jumbled, confused thoughts are surely frightening enough, but to suffer in a world of silence must be awful. Please make some sort of donation to the Alzheimer's cause.

UPDATE: The hearing aid fitting at the Prince of Wales Hospital went smoothly. No waiting, no fuss and no consternation from m-in-l. Sadly, she had a toilet accident on the way home but she was completely unaware and the brilliant staff at The Firs home swiftly sorted her out on her return. Thankfully, her hearing problems have now eased and we can converse again; sadly, the Alzheimer's continues unabated.

"Did I tell you I visited my mother last week?" she asked, referring to a women who died more than 40 years ago. "Yes, she's keeping well."

At least her mood seemed to match the weather on this pleasant, sunny, February day in the Fens.

NB: Please remember that by clicking on the adverts on this blog you are helping to make a contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking ...

Warning!

2013-12-30T20:02:00.001+00:00

INTERESTING to see that this blog has been rated as having adult content on a website called pressabout.us
I suppose writing about the Fens, animals and Alzheimer's constitutes pretty racy stuff in some parts.

Know your onions

2013-10-05T01:10:00.000+01:00

LIGHT BULBS: Row upon row of onions are left to dry in the early Autumn sun in the heart of the Fens

THE SMELL of raw onions is common in these parts - among other scents - and this picture taken on the outskirts of our village a week ago goes some way to explaining why. You can see hundreds of acres of them, all laid out in neat lines after being unearthed. They have since been collected and on almost every sharp bend in the area you can now find the odd onion which has fallen off loaded trailers and onto the road. It may come as no surprise to learn that there is also a huge onion cleaning and packaging plant at nearby Chatteris.
The farmers are now turning their attention to sugar beet and potatoes.
But that's shallot for now ...

NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking ...

Deere, deer! It's been so busy in the Fens' fields of gold

2013-09-03T23:39:00.000+01:00

HINDSIGHT: A deer, not a John Deere, roaming about,
and below, an expensive combine causes a bit of a storm

HARVEST time is almost over. The annual agricultural round-the-clock madness is coming to an end.
Spotlights sending out searing beams that cut into the night have been switched off and the sound of heavy machinery has finally subsided.
The expansive fields of the Fens have been full of tractors, trailers and combine harvesters. We have seen machinery in different shapes, sizes and ages working at full pelt, day and night, to bring in the crops.
Fortunately, the weather has been kind to the farmers this summer except for a few days a week or so ago when we had storms and heavy rain. But generally, we have been blessed with a great summer.
The landscape has now taken on a golden hue and we are surrounded by fields of stubble littered with bales, both round and rectangular, waiting to be taken in and stacked.
It was fortunate that we had a camera a few days ago to catch a solitary deer roaming about in one such field early in the afternoon on the outskirts of our village. It was curious when we stopped our car and it stood for a few moments, staring directly at us, but then opted for caution and cantered off (top right) towards the safety of a concealed drainage ditch running along the edge of the field. Does a deer canter?
It was a wonderful and unexpected sight.

DEER-LIGHTFUL: Click on the photo
to get a closer look

I have enclosed a selection of photos to illustrate how busy it gets at this time of year but please make sure you take a peek at the old combine harvester below. The woman driving the red Massey Ferguson is a local farmer, mum and housewife who never seems to stop working. She can be seen in the fields at all times of year, and in all types of weather, doing the work of a dozen people. She really sums up the spirit of this region. Farming may have its rewards, but it is not an easy job.

BALE-OUT: Old-fashioned tractor, old-fashioned square
bales. Personal tip. The twine cuts your fingers if you don't
wear gloves when hay-making, as I found out as a teenager

GOGGLE-EYED: The woman driver of this old combine
is wearing goggles. No luxurious cabin for this lady

NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a valuable contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking folks ...

TWILIGHT ZONE: The light was fading when I took this
picture of a combine working next to an onion field

ROAD BLOCK: It's easy to get stuck behind a tractor

GARDEN DELIGHT: Hard at work in a field by our house

Eat your heart out, Nigella! This is really tasty

2013-08-18T20:13:00.000+01:00

TASTY: Nigella at a book-signing
Wikipedia

MARY Berry, Paul Hollywood, Nigella Lawson ... eat your hearts out. My missus would win the Great British Bake-off hands down every time, as far as I am concerned. In fact, not just me. My work colleagues think her light Victoria Sponge and luscious Lemon Drizzle have made her worthy of the title, Queen of Cakes (Saturdays).
This weekend, the boys and girls in London had to go without. Ah, how sad. My wife decided not to give away her delicious cake to the hungry rabble at my office.
Instead, she turned her attention to muffins with various sweet-tasting centres cleverly inserted. And all in a good cause. She and several friends sold their home-made goodies to raise money for the Addenbrookes Oncology Unit in Cambridge because one of her colleagues mum's has recently been diagnosed with the dreaded Big C. This was a way of raising awareness and valuable funds. The cakes, as you would expect, all went down a treat. And you can see exactly why. Now, where did she put that cake tin? I'm feeling ever so slightly peckish. Can't think why.
PS: The event raised more than £300.
NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a valuable contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking folks ...

Dove survives after Sweep's clean swoop!

2013-08-15T17:07:00.000+01:00

WHAT DID I DO WRONG? Sweep puts on the angelic face.
This photo was taken some time ago, but he hasn't changed!

SWEEP, our speedy Spaniel, swept up on a slouch of a collared dove strutting about on the lawn early in the morning just as I was about to let the animals out and give them breakfast. The feathers were flying ... but not the bird. Fortunately, the Sweepster responded to anxious shouts from me and my wife and immediately dropped the dove. The true instincts of a gun dog.
Battered, dazed and probably in a state of shock, the bird hardly moved until I carefully picked it up, relieved that it was still alive. The bird soon stopped flapping and calmed down so I took it down the garden and placed it on the ground in a paddock next to a fence in the early morning sun.
When I carried my afternoon check on the menagerie I decided to see if our friend had survived. He was sitting on the fence, rather than on the ground, recognisable because he was minus a quite few tail feathers. Yet as I approached he deftly flew up to an overhead wire, showing no signs of his earlier encounter. These doves are a common sight, particularly in this part of the world, and make their nests in the strangest of places, and do not show the same fear of humans seen in other birds. And they certainly seem very hardy, especially in this lucky blighter's case. Strange to think, then, that before the 1950s they did not even breed in Britain.

COLLARED: A bird such as one of these was caught by Sweep. They are a very common sight ... even with a lively Sweep on the prowl Wikipedia

PS: The rain brings about some strange sights in the ornithological world. A group of wood pigeons were sitting on one of our fences, all lifting one wing up in the air so that the angled rain could get get to their bodies, presumably so they could have a bit of a freshen-up. Make sure you wash your armpits! Weird sight. Unfortunately, I didn't have a camera.

Hot potatoes...seen anyone with a chip on their shoulder?

2013-07-24T19:10:00.000+01:00

KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED: Missing potatoes Wikipedia

POLICE are urging people to keep their eyes peeled for cheeky green-fingered thieves who stole one-and-half-tonnes of potatoes from a field near Basin Road in the village of Outwell - a few miles from us just over the county border in Norfolk.
Hundred of spuds were dug up from the same area only three weeks ago under cover of darkness but it is not clear if the two crimes are linked. Such dastardly deeds.
There are no description of the villains, who are unlikely to be couch potatoes, but we should presumably be looking for people with chips on their shoulders. Could they be golfers with that sort of handicap. Chip and run, perhaps? This sort of crime is quite common in the Fens, folks. Bring back the Peelers ...http://www.learnhistory.org.uk/cpp/met.htm

ALEXANDER the GREAT

BBC

PS: So the royal baby will be known as George Alexander Louis. Congratulations to William and Kate. A future king is born. How appropriate then, that another great Alexander - James Alexander Gordon (right) - the king of football results, should announce his retirement from the BBC at the age of 77. Those of us interested in sport grew up with him as he gave us the news about our favourite team every Saturday in that posh Scottish accent. He had one of the most recognisable voices in broadcasting and read the classifieds for 40 years. Sadly, JAG recently had surgery to remove his larynx after being diagnosed with cancer and his voice is no longer strong enough to broadcast.
Mark Pougatch, multi-talented presenter of Radio 5 Live Sport, summed it up for all fans when he said: 'Such was his unique style of reading the classifieds, his wonderful inflections and stresses, that even non-believers of sport knew the result after the home team's score.
'Nobody else will be able to say "Wolverhampton Wanderers" with such mellifluous tones.'

NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a valuable contribution towards Alzheimer's research. So get clicking folks ... you know you'd be quackers not to.

T&Q stay so cool at fiery Fenland HQ

2013-07-20T02:37:00.000+01:00

WHAT'S UP, DUCK? T&Q are playing it cool in the heat

HOT OFF THE PRESS:
Why do ducks watch the news?
To see the feather forecast!

REMEMBER those cute little yellow things who/which hatched almost four weeks ago (see previous posts) at Fenland HQ? Tich and Quackers have grown slightly, wouldn't you agree? They now overshadow mum when they stand tall, they are very inquisitive, they eat exceedingly well and are quite noisy in a whistly sort of way. In fact, they are bordering on being mini hooligans, albeit tame 'uns.
As soon as we put food out, they appear out of nowhere, rocking from side to side like a couple of Keystone Cops. They don't corner that well but they most definitely eat for Britain.
We bought yet another coop last week because they were growing so quickly it was apparent there soon wouldn't be enough room for ducklings and surrogate mum - the black Pekin called Rosemary. Fortunately, all have settled well in their new abode.
Furthermore, they share a pen with the other two bantams and all get on famously. The feathers are not flying.
Maternal Rosemary initially stepped in aggressively if the others seemed to be getting too close to her babies, but she quickly realised they were not a threat to T&Q so she dropped the rolling pin, took off the boxing gloves and the status quo was restored.
The heatwave - talk about extremes - doesn't seem to bother T&Q too much. They are taking everything in their clumsy stride and either drink from or stand in the trays and containers of water in their compound. The Met Office continue to issue obvious warnings about the hot weather while the rest of us swelter, but T&Q remain cool dudes throughout it all. It seems nothing can ruffle their feathers (which are just beginning to appear).

NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a valuable contribution towards Alzheimer's research. So get clicking folks ... you know you'd be quackers not to.

PUT IT ON THE BILL: The gang inspect the newly-purchased
home (top); Rosemary and her babies stay in the shade

Stalag-tight security for T&Q

2013-06-26T21:23:00.001+01:00

THERE seems to be growing concern about the safety of our ducklings, Tich and Quackers (aka T&Q).

A good friend wrote: "My mother wants to know what happens to Tich and Quackers at night and where does mother sleep? Will a fox eat their mother, turning T&Q into orphans?"

EAT UP: My wife tries to coax Rosemary to eat; one duckling is under her body, the other is not so camera-shy

STALAG TIGHT: High security keeps the foxes out

VE 'av vays, so rest assured, Mrs S. The ducklings are being well cared for by Rosemary, their surrogate mother. They all sleep together in a small enclosure, within another larger secure compound. There are three layers of wire netting on each side and a layer of strong netting over the top to prevent agile predators getting in (we hope).
At night we put them in a straw-laden wooden box with a removable lid, and the ducklings tend to tuck themselves under Rosemary's wings or under her body when they sleep. In fact, their mum could be described as a cosy 25-tog duvet (no duck down, of course).
I would think it is almost as secure as a Stalag, although there are no guards, with heavy German accents, on the perimeters. We do have powerful security lights and my wife and I are frequent visitors, so I suppose we could be classed as the security even though our German is not too good.
According to the Third Geneva Convention (1929), such camps were only for prisoners of war, not bantams and ducklings, but you get ze picture, ja?

Tich and Quackers leave us shell-shocked

2013-06-22T10:28:00.001+01:00

TICH and Quackers, our Indian Runner ducklings, finally made an appearance sometime yesterday afternoon. We're still in shock. Some would say shell-shocked. Aren't they brilliant? More to follow soon.

UPDATE: Tich and Quackers appear to be strong, healthy ducklings who are well cared for by Rosemary. They are inquisitive little characters who eat well, drink plenty and love to splash about in their bowl of water as well as drink from it. They do look comical when preening themselves after a dip but they are much more steady on their feet. They looked like a couple of fluffy drunks staggering about for the first 24 hours or so. Mum watches them constantly, wondering no doubt, about the antics of her babies - and her own identity. Still, she is turning out to be a great parent but we do have concerns because she is eating very little at the moment. Something new to worry about.

Duckling alert! Let the wisequacks begin

2013-06-21T09:21:00.000+01:00

SHALL we dispense with the wisequacks from the start? It wasn't quite the quack of dawn, but my wife and I were up very early this morning because are expecting a couple of new additions to the family. Ducklings.

CLICK (or cluck) ON THE PHOTO: Rosemary with her duck eggs

Rosemary, our broody Pekin Bantam, is about to become a surrogate mum to a pair of Indian Runner Ducks after sitting on the eggs for almost a month. The idea was suggested by a neighbour, a.k.a. Greengrass, who told us broody bantams make brilliant mothers. Our three ducks don't seem remotely interested in the eggs they lay so it seemed like a good idea to try for some young 'uns with Rosemary.

We had given up hope with the experiment until yesterday when my wife noticed that cracks were appearing in the egg shells ... and the nerves are now beginning to kick in.

We dashed down again this morning to see if the ducklings had emerged but nothing as yet. The cracks in the eggs are significantly bigger and we can see movement. It's a question of wait and see, I suppose.

STAND-OFF: Sir Francis, our protective drake, can
often be seen chasing away wood pigeons if they
have the audacity to land anywhere near his harem.
This bold intruder decided to sit it out on the fence,
much to Francis's displeasure

Mum and babies will have their own maternity area - we're a little worried that the other bantams might become jealous - so we have made alternative arrangements and they will have their own home and pen, within the main hen section. And if Rosemary rejects the babies then we will use the utility room in our house, which stays very warm because of the central heating boiler.

In the meantime, a few items I found after a brief search on the, err, Web.

'Put it on the bill,' said the duck to the bartender.
Who stole the bathroom soap? The robber duck.
Why do ducks watch the news? For the feather forecast.
Where do ducks go when they are ill? To see the ducktor ... to see the Quack.

No, I can't go on. I'll keep you posted.

Alzheimer's: A Neverending Story (or Hay fever on Fry-day)

2013-05-13T13:11:00.001+01:00

SHRINK-WRAPPED: A healthy brain (bottom) is much larger than the brain of a donor with Alzheimer's
Wikipedia

'He's there, look. Just under that thing, that window, and look, he's painting. Can't you see him?' she enquired, pointing towards a high brick wall in the side garden. 'He lives there now. He comes to see me every morning, you know, before he goes to work. He says "How are you dear?" and asks me if there's anything I want and then he's off.'

Another cruel twist of the knife by that arch villain, Alzheimer's. My wife almost winced. It was certainly painful to hear.
My mother-in-law was talking about her husband who died fast-approaching four years ago. And he wasn't even called Lazarus. It was the prelude to a long, meandering but contrived chat that would stop randomly at different points as if signalling different stages in her life, before continuing again, a mishmash of ideas, people and places.
At this point, as the early afternoon sun lit up the large conservatory of the Little Downham care home overlooking fields where well cared-for horses barely moved as they grazed, her thoughts were predominantly about her husband.

BRAINY: Stephen Fry, normally a regular at the Hay Festival,
does not seem to feature this year
Wikipedia

The story-telling was effortless but there were sometimes pauses as she struggled to snatch the correct but evasive word, a Potteresque snitch, hovering in the hazy ether. Occasionally her speech was slurred, too, but overall she was holding her audience. Stephen Fry at the Hay Festival (http://www.hayfestival.com) it was not. Not even Bernard Cribbins presenting Jackanory. But we were intrigued, almost mesmerised by the stuff she was spouting just as we were captivated by those BBC episodes from our childhood. Even the chiropodist working on residents' gnarled old feet at the far side of the sun room was intrigued.
'At least she's talking," she said with a heavy stage whisper. 'You're not wrong there. But it's so sad because everyone she's talking about is dead,' I replied as mother continued to talk to her daughter.
'I thought as much,' replied the seated chiropodist, before looking down attentively at a foot resting on one of her knees. She didn't look up, but continued: 'I used to work as a carer in a home like this and I think that it's more worrying when they just sit there and say nothing ... just staring.'
Another click, another piece of nail from the foot dealt with swiftly as she withdrew what looked like pliers straight from my old (seldom used) tool box. I hate feet. Horrible. She didn't mean to be dispassionate. But I suppose there is a point in our lives as we shuffle to old age when we all become 'they'.

'Did I tell you that Vera called round to see me the other day?' said mum-in-law. 'Yes, she looks well and she's coming to pick me up and we're going to live at home again. In a couple of weeks, I think. You don't have to worry about picking us up, by the way. Vera has her own transport now. My mother doesn't know that we're going home, but we don't want her sticking her oar in. You know what she's like. She'll say this and that, la-la-la, and "no you can't". Typical. Well, that's what Pop always said.' She then laughed. Actually, it was more of a cackle. Scary, very scary.

Vera was her favourite sister, a severely handicapped lady who had no formal education and died many years ago ... in a care home. Their own mother passed way before then. Mum-in-law's beloved Pop died when she was just 16.
The illness is not getting any better ... http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/ http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/

PS: Did you see the story about Stephanie Bottril, who committed suicide because of the 'Bedroom Tax'? This government are a bunch of arses who don't have a clue about the life of ordinary people in Britain. It's all well and good making savings, targeting scroungers, going on about the European Union or calling for a referendum because UKIP have them running scared. But what about vulnerable folk who genuinely struggle, who rely on the Welfare State to survive? They do exist, you know, and it is these people who are being punished so that the government PR machine can roll out crap and wrap it all up in a supposed vote-catching benefit-cheats offensive. We all hate scroungers, of course we do. But tackle that problem in a different way, for goodness sake. My mother-in-law talks more sense.

Dial M ... for Mabel

2013-05-06T01:51:00.000+01:00

The scent of death lingers in the Fens. Not quite Vinnie Jones in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, not even John Nettles in Midsomer Murders, but I'll mention anything and anyone to get a half-decent intro and a link to other items further down this post.
First, Martha, then Margaret (Thatcher) and now Mabel. Mmm, very sad. Not so much a case of Dial M for Murder as Dial M for Mabel.
Martha's demise a few weeks ago was a blow, but Mabel's sudden death a few days ago was a genuine shock. Our beautiful Silver Pekin Bantam, a noisy busybody who was first out of the coop every morning, last in at night, and certainly the most friendly of our small group, began slowing down just over a week ago. She stayed inside on a perch, on the sawdust-strewn floor in a corner or in a nesting box; she had to be hand-fed much of the time with sweetcorn (soaked in water for fluid intake) and drank very little. She rallied for a couple of days, making a few appearances outdoors. But then her condition worsened.

OUR FEATHERED FRIEND: Mabel (front) was a lively bird

A visit to the excellent vets on the outskirts of Ely meant she was given a thorough check. What a spectacle: concerned big bloke lifts lid of small cardboard box [ it had contained a recently-purchased iron] pierced with holes, reaches in and tentatively pulls out small bird in front of serious-looking young vet. Bespectacled assistant appears at consulting room window simultaneously, looks curious and bemused. It was all so very surreal.
An antibiotic fluid was prescribed by the young lady who thought our Mabel had perhaps picked up an infection and the drug was administered by placing a miniature syringe in her beak twice a day. All to no avail. She passed away quietly the following day and is now buried alongside Martha.

*We have magpies nesting in trees near our goat shed/stable - there are a large number of birds nesting in the garden this year - and here I have to own up to superstition handed down to me by my mum. I salute magpies whenever I come across them and I am constantly on edge if I see only one. Now that is bad luck. Seeing one can really ruin my day and I'm constantly on the lookout for more of the feisty buggers so that I can salute them and ward off the threat of bad luck. At this point I feel a link coming on: http://www.timelessmyths.co.uk

HELLO MAGPIE: One for sorrow
Dave-F

In many parts of the United Kingdom spying a single magpie is considered an omen of bad fortune and saluting is a way of showing the proper respect in the hope that the magpie won't pass on some of the misfortune that follows it.

*Vinnie Jones has the same attitude to seeing just one magpie. In his book, Vinnie, the Autobiography, - now you understand why there's a jacket cover at the top - he describes how he drives through the countryside for miles until he sees another magpie. Yes, it was a free copy I read many years ago, and it was a reasonable read, believe it or not. It was of particular interest to me because I once interviewed him while he was playing for Leeds United under Howard Wilkinson. An intimidating bloke, but a great sense of humour. Vinnie, that is. I reckon you need it at Elland Road, ee bah gum.

*I heard my first cuckoo of the year early on Friday as I was letting out the animals and feeding them. Yes, I did spit and yes, I did make a wish. No, I'm not telling. I want it to come true. Here's another link: http://www.mystical-www.co.uk/ and an extract:

In Wales it is supposed to be unlucky to hear the first call before April 6, and if heard on April 28 the following year will be a prosperous one, while in England it is supposed to be unlucky to hear it when in bed but an omen of good fortune if heard outdoors, especially if you have money in your pocket (as you are never supposed to fall on hard times again) or standing on grass. On hearing the bird the money should be taken out of the pocket and spat on according to old Welsh folklore.

If you are a man, then you should remove a shoe when you hear the call of the cuckoo and look inside. If you find a hair, this will relate to the colour of hair that your future partner will have. If you are a woman, the number of notes made in the bird song will indicate how many years you must wait until you will marry. The same is true for an older person, as the number of cuckoo calls is reputed to indicate the number of years the person has left to live.

How cheery. I didn't remove my shoes because the goats would have had them for breakfast and I had nothing in my pockets - because I'm just a poor man from the Fens. But there is a glimmer of hope because I was standing on grass. Hey things must be looking up.

AND FINALLY

FUR REAL: Ferreting about in the Fens
Flicktone

Peterborough United were relegated by conceding a goal in the final minute of the final Championship game of the season. Darren Ferguson's men apparently played good, stylish football but a terrible start to their campaign landed them in trouble. Let's hope Posh bounce back again for the sake of this region which is starved of good football. The Fens are not exactly the heartlands of the English national game. When it comes to ferret racing, however, well that's another matter. Game on.

PS: Fanfare. This is the 50th post of Fenland fiddle-faddle.

Thatcher: A Miner joke turns B Flat

2013-04-08T16:09:00.001+01:00

MIXED MEMORIES: Former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in October 2007 Wikipedia

TWO OF A KIND: Ronald Reagan, who showed signs of Alzheimer's while President of the USA, with his great friend and fan Margaret Thatcher Wikipedia

MARGARET THATCHER DIES - live reaction and updates, according to The Guardian blog today. Notice the wit and irony, eh?

I wasn't a fan but she was certainly a woman who could not be ignored. The flurry of minor/miner jokes are a little too predictable, though, as were puns about strokes and strikes, but I do think the bedroom tax gags were topical and amusing.

Brace yourselves for wall-to-wall coverage about the legendary politician until her funeral at St Paul's Cathedral in London. I won't bore you with my two-penneth worth but Fenland fiddle-faddle is concerned with dementia because of the impact my mother-in-law's illness has had on our family. So here is a statement from Jeremy Hughes, the chief executive of the Alzheimer's Society (http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/):

"It was well known that Baroness Thatcher had dementia during the last years of her life. Dementia is caused by brain diseases; the most common are Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. One in three people over 65 will develop dementia but for too long dementia has been kept in the shadows and families have been left to struggle alone.

"Today, up and down the country people will be sharing memories of Baroness Thatcher. At this time we hope people will also reflect on the impact dementia can have on a person’s life. By speaking openly about the effects of the condition, we will begin to tackle some of the stigma that still surrounds dementia and ensure that everyone gets the support they deserve."

Stop! Thief! Freeze in Hell ...

2013-03-29T23:12:00.002+00:00

PERHAPS it is good that my mother-in-law cannot remember. She celebrated her 85th birthday yesterday at a residential care home targeted by - how should I put this? - complete bastards.
I was so incensed that I put together a few paragraphs for our evening newspaper and Anglia Television:

Heartless thieves hit a new low when they syphoned off hundreds of litres of heating oil at a residential care home to leave a group of vulnerable elderly people at risk as temperatures plummeted below zero.

The cold-hearted criminals drained the half-submerged oil storage tank within the electronically-gated grounds of *** **** at Little Downham on the outskirts of Ely on Wednesday night or the early hours of Thursday morning and, in doing so, completely shut down the central heating system.

Care staff handed at the 27-bedroomed home handed out blankets and shawls during the day as residents were left without heating for most of Thursday. A plea also went out to relatives for free-standing heaters and radiators but the central heating was restored in the evening following an emergency delivery of oil.

A spokesperson for the home said: “I just can’t believe that someone could do this to old people. Just how low can someone stoop?”

I visited in the morning to wish my mum-in-law all the best on her 85th big day, to drop off a few goodies and to hand over a couple of birthday cards. She was initially slow to recognise me as she sipped her mug of milky tea and chatted away to her best pal, who is 99.

"Oh, it's you. You haven't changed at all since I last saw you." That occasion was last week, by the way.

During my stay, a member of staff was handing out shawls in one of the lounges to residents who were feeling cold. It was then that I found out about the shocking theft. It was not noticeably chilly to me but then I am not eighty-plus. No sniggering at the back! I also told mum-in-law that I would be visiting again in the evening with my wife when she had finished work and promised more pressies. Sadly, this information was retained for all of 20 seconds. The same could be said about her birthday. She simply didn't remember, even though various carers were wishing her many happy returns etc, etc. Good old Alzheimer's, eh?

"It's my birthday? Really? I must be about 70 I think."

When her actual age was revealed, she said, simply: "Oh, I wasn't far out then."

This conversation was repeated several times before I left.

My wife and I went back later as promised and the central heating had just been restarted after an oil delivery, so at least the residents were spared freezing to death. It will come soon enough for many of them, but being helped to your grave because some arse decided to nick the oil is unthinkable.

Mum-in-law was thrilled to see her daughter, as you would expect, and pleased to see me "after such a long time". There was absolutely no recollection of the earlier visit. Still, she was equally delighted with her presents which she unwrapped in the privacy of her room rather than a lounge full of chairs and walking frames. We then sat together round a table in the dining room and chatted away for a good hour. Mum-in-law, who now suffers from incontinence quite badly, struggles even more to find the words she wants to use and has almost no short-term memory, was in high spirits to begin with, but her mood quickly changed.

"I don't like it here. I want to go home," she said.

"They're good to me here, people speak to me, but I don't do anything. And it's not home. I don't want to die here, so how long have I got to stay?" [She lived with us for three and half years but it seems home to her is a pastiche of dwellings, houses in which she has lived and the accompanying memories which are fading fast.]

I felt so sorry and, if I'm brutally honest, so very uncomfortable. She continued:

"I do have a house, you know. [No she doesn't.] I want to go back there and walk down my garden path. I'm fed up just sitting here doing nothing." [There are organised activities each morning, staff are always talking to residents and there is a constant stream of visitors. But she is right. It isn't home.]

My wife dealt with the situation brilliantly and in a delicate, sympathetic manner. I stayed stum. Not known for my diplomacy and tact, you understand. She changed the subject to her mum's birthday, the cake she had been presented with and her presents. Cliche, I know, but it really was as if a switch had been thrown, the mood changed, her concerns forgotten in an instant and she rediscovered her high spirits. As we left, she resumed her place in the high-back chair next to her pal who was nodding off. A handful of Werthers Originals wrapping papers lay discarded by her side.

The journey home on that freezing March night was marked by feelings of guilt and sadness. Could we have done more to keep her at home with us? Could we have still coped as her condition deteriorated? Was she in the best place? Sadly, the answers are clear. She is being given the expert care and attention we simply cannot provide. Yes, we'll continue to visit as often as possible and to take her out for the odd day trip and for meals, but there's no getting away from the fact that Alzheimer's is such a cruel disease.