roll himself a cigarette and did it quickly and expertly. Then, sadly for me, he had to go outside to smoke it.
He’s probably been drinking in the pub since he was 10, and when he first drove down the main road there probably weren’t any white lines on it.
I’ve never smoked and I think pubs are the better for the ban but I somehow feel he’s earned the right, at his age, to smoke his roll-up where he likes.
When we left he’d just finished it and we had a five-minute chat. It was a beautiful warm evening and he seemed unconcerned about having to move with the times, something he’s obviously always taken in his stride.
WE’VE got a really good lad who works here part-time. He comes three days a week in the winter and when he can in the summer.
Summer is his busy time because he’s bought his own tractor and goes off doing contract work – all very enterprising in a lad who is only just 17. I wouldn’t want him to know I think he’s a good lad because it’s also important to keep him on his toes as he spends a lot of time trying to keep me on mine.
His social life is of interest to me and I’m always surprised by how many fights there are at the dances he attends. I see it as my role to teach him a bit of homespun philosophy and to avoid these fights and to concentrate on the girls instead.
‘This,’ I told him, pointing to my head, ‘is for thinking, and these,’ pointing to my feet, ‘are for dancing and running away.’
He’s not been here for some weeks now – last time he was here he was carting muck on to our maize ground. There was ahuge heap outside a shed that we clean out every month during the winter. He wanted a couple of hours off at noon to go for a driving lesson so I said I’d clear out the remaining muck in the shed while he was away.
‘Take you a lot longer than two hours to do that,’ he said. ‘It’s all very well you young boys ripping and tearing about on these machines and making a lot of noise,’ I told him, ‘but now and again someone like me has to take a hand. My superior tractor driving skills, knowledge and expertise are needed to keep work up to schedule and, if you are bright enough, it gives you a chance to learn from the high standards I set.’
He thought this was all very funny and went off to his lesson saying: ‘You won’t clear that shed out before I get back!’
I leant nonchalantly on a gate until he was out of sight but then I leapt into action. It’s the best shed we have for cleaning out – in a previous life it was a large grain store, so it’s got nice concrete walls and floors.
A lot of our sheds are not concreted right through because the cost of concrete in recent years has been prohibitive. In fact, it would probably be cheaper to cover the floors with the finest Indian carpets.
The previous tenant to me, who used the shed as a grain store, had lined the roof with plastic fertiliser bags. I don’t know why, perhaps it was to stop condensation, but I’ve noticed that lots of pigeons live in the space between the bags and the roof.
The roar from the machine disturbed them and I’d got my fifth bucket full when two very young pigeons came fluttering out from their sanctuary and landed on my bucket.
I had two choices: carry on regardless and tip muck and pigeons on the heap outside; or get off, catch them and put them somewhere safe.
I chose the latter, of course, but my mind was on my younghelper – I didn’t need this delay. I pressed on with my work and had to stop three or four times more to remove pigeons from the bucket, including the pigeons I’d removed to safety but which had fluttered back on to the bucket.
The shed was clear, the loader parked up and I was back leaning on the gate before the world’s best tractor driver got back. He popped his head inside the shed door and, to be fair, gave me a congratulatory nod. Now here’s a strange thing. As I got off the loader while dealing with the pigeons I muttered
He’s probably been drinking in the pub since he was 10, and when he first drove down the main road there probably weren’t any white lines on it.
I’ve never smoked and I think pubs are the better for the ban but I somehow feel he’s earned the right, at his age, to smoke his roll-up where he likes.
When we left he’d just finished it and we had a five-minute chat. It was a beautiful warm evening and he seemed unconcerned about having to move with the times, something he’s obviously always taken in his stride.
WE’VE got a really good lad who works here part-time. He comes three days a week in the winter and when he can in the summer.
Summer is his busy time because he’s bought his own tractor and goes off doing contract work – all very enterprising in a lad who is only just 17. I wouldn’t want him to know I think he’s a good lad because it’s also important to keep him on his toes as he spends a lot of time trying to keep me on mine.
His social life is of interest to me and I’m always surprised by how many fights there are at the dances he attends. I see it as my role to teach him a bit of homespun philosophy and to avoid these fights and to concentrate on the girls instead.
‘This,’ I told him, pointing to my head, ‘is for thinking, and these,’ pointing to my feet, ‘are for dancing and running away.’
He’s not been here for some weeks now – last time he was here he was carting muck on to our maize ground. There was ahuge heap outside a shed that we clean out every month during the winter. He wanted a couple of hours off at noon to go for a driving lesson so I said I’d clear out the remaining muck in the shed while he was away.
‘Take you a lot longer than two hours to do that,’ he said. ‘It’s all very well you young boys ripping and tearing about on these machines and making a lot of noise,’ I told him, ‘but now and again someone like me has to take a hand. My superior tractor driving skills, knowledge and expertise are needed to keep work up to schedule and, if you are bright enough, it gives you a chance to learn from the high standards I set.’
He thought this was all very funny and went off to his lesson saying: ‘You won’t clear that shed out before I get back!’
I leant nonchalantly on a gate until he was out of sight but then I leapt into action. It’s the best shed we have for cleaning out – in a previous life it was a large grain store, so it’s got nice concrete walls and floors.
A lot of our sheds are not concreted right through because the cost of concrete in recent years has been prohibitive. In fact, it would probably be cheaper to cover the floors with the finest Indian carpets.
The previous tenant to me, who used the shed as a grain store, had lined the roof with plastic fertiliser bags. I don’t know why, perhaps it was to stop condensation, but I’ve noticed that lots of pigeons live in the space between the bags and the roof.
The roar from the machine disturbed them and I’d got my fifth bucket full when two very young pigeons came fluttering out from their sanctuary and landed on my bucket.
I had two choices: carry on regardless and tip muck and pigeons on the heap outside; or get off, catch them and put them somewhere safe.
I chose the latter, of course, but my mind was on my younghelper – I didn’t need this delay. I pressed on with my work and had to stop three or four times more to remove pigeons from the bucket, including the pigeons I’d removed to safety but which had fluttered back on to the bucket.
The shed was clear, the loader parked up and I was back leaning on the gate before the world’s best tractor driver got back. He popped his head inside the shed door and, to be fair, gave me a congratulatory nod. Now here’s a strange thing. As I got off the loader while dealing with the pigeons I muttered
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