How I Know I’m Getting Old

So I am finally facing up to the fact that my birthday is hurtling towards me at a rate of knots and next week I shall be 29 with 4 years’ experience. Ghastly thought.

Over the last few months the evidence has been mounting against me to prove I’m no longer able to deny the inelegant process of ageing, to the point where it’s now smacking me in the face and I’m just going to have to bloody well accept it. Let’s peruse…

Exhibit no: 1

My body has suddenly decided that it is physically impossible to contain fluid for any more than approximately 45 minutes at a time. So it transpires that practically overnight I have obtained the bladder of a 60 year old and need to pee…constantly. I’m still lucky enough to not have to wake up in the night to go but it’s only natural progression!

Exhibit no: 2

I make noises when I bend down to pick things up or sit down in a chair. You know the ones I mean, those involuntary “ooof” groans like your grandma makes. It’s as if I’m all of a sudden a decrepit OAP. Not cool and certainly not attractive! My joints also click when I stand up, I’m literally one step away from saying “Ooo me knees”. *facepalm*

Exhibit no: 3

I now have zero social life and the only person that actually ever wants to speak to me is my mother, no exaggeration and I can prove this to you…

As much as I adore my mother, it’s quite a pathetic sight I’m sure you’ll agree! Which brings me nicely onto:

Exhibit no: 4

I went to Cheltenham races last month and at the sight of freezing twenty-somethings, rather than admire their daring outfit choices and hasty application of fake tan, I found myself somewhat appalled. I could hear myself using phrases that my mother would be proud of like “put some clothes on woman!” and “layers are sexy in winter, not skin.”

Gone are the days when I would even dream of wearing stilettos and a mini skirt in 5 degree temperatures all day. No, no sensible boots and tweed was the theme of the day for me. In fact the only piece of skin you could actually see was my face, and even that was covered up half the time.

So, it transpires “young at heart” is really a thing and “forever young” really is a non-thing. Smashing.

Until next time (when I might feel the need to talk about the price of bread these days and when pensions actually gave you a retirement wage to look forward to)…FML I’m getting old!!

I’ve Got A Confession…

So it’s been longer than I’d like (as per usual) since I last wrote a blog post but in my defence, I’ve been wrestling with a moral dilemma about whether or not I should share something with you.

I’d feel like I was living a lie if I didn’t confess it, but it’s so embarrassing that I’m afraid you’ll judge me if I did. But I’ve decided to be brave, so, here it goes…

My name is Amy and I’m afraid of chickens.

Utterly petrified in fact, to the point where I tried to climb up a fully grown adult (sorry Fiona) in the petting farm at London Zoo because they were loose and one “cock-a-doodle-do’d” at me. Full on nearly crapped my pants. *Classy*

It’s caused no end of troubles in my life, I’m even questioning my status as a “true country girl” as I speak.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll eat the buggers, that’s my revenge! But all the money in the world couldn’t convince me to keep live ones at home. My excuse is that the Labradors would likely try and constantly pick the damn things up and bring them to me, and that’s just animal cruelty. In truth, I find the concept completely horrifying!

“Where did this phobia come from?” I here you ask. Well, interesting story, let me share it with you. I was at a BBQ at a stables where a number of friends kept their horses and on the yard was this, frankly hideous, giant chicken (some rare breed apparently) called Kellogg. Put me off the cereal for life.

Anyway, this thing had the evilest beady eyes and scaly dinosaur legs that, quite honestly, totally freaked me out. I stupidly aired this concern amongst my piers and a certain someone who shall remain nameless (Tim Taylor) decided to PICK the damn thing up and SIT it on my shoulder when I had my head turned.

I s**t you not, I covered that yard in about four and a half strides at a pace that would have made Linford Christie (1990’s Usain Bolt to you millennials) proud, I tell you.

And thus, scarred for life! So you can imagine the joy I felt when I moved my horse up to Wiltshire and found only after we’d settled into the yard that they had a flock of chickens…f**king smashing!

The little bastards then naturally chose to roost in my stable, obviously. They can sense the fear I’m sure. But I did eventually get brave enough to pick them up with a shavings fork (mucking out tool for you townies) and tip them out the door.

And at least the eggs tasted nice, although I did check for a date stamp on the first one I picked up in the stable…you can take the girl out of the city…!

I’m not sure that I really feel like I’ve got a load off my chest, but at least I no longer feel like I’m deceiving you all into thinking I’ve fully embraced this country life lark and forgotten my true city roots.

Anyway, judge away…just try to be a little sympathetic!

Until next time!

New Year, New Me…Blah, Blah, Blah!

Oh man it’s the 2nd of January and I’m already SO done with the whole “New Year, New Me” (along with a whole host of unimaginative emojis) crap!

Is it me becoming an even bigger cynic as I race towards my mid thirties at a rate I’m feeling less than comfortable with? Or is it just literally everywhere and on an even larger scale than usual this year?

Come on people, let’s own who we are or at least find a more creative way of jumping on the “personal development” bandwagon. Pleeeease!!

Not only that, but it seems like every other TV advert is for a holiday company at the moment…What’s all that about?!?! We’re all legit-poor after the exorbitant costs of Christmas (don’t even get me started on that one!) and I don’t know about you, but I am DEFFO not in bikini body shape after living on a diet solidly consisting of pâté, cheese, cold meats, Christmas tree chocolates and stocking sweets for the last 2.4 weeks!

(She says as she has absolutely no plans to get her fat ass out on a run in the next week)

But I do have a New Years resolution (aside from kicking my arse into gear and actually writing more than one blog post a month, of course)… I vow to remain the same sarcastic, loud-mouthed, opinionated gobsh*te with the grade A resting bitch face that you all have grown to know and adore…! If it ain’t broke, why fix it eh?! 😂

Until next time!

Who’re You Picking Up?!

So it’s been a long enough time since my last blog that it’s now got a little bit awkward and I figured it was time enough I just bit the bullet and got back into it, but I just couldn’t think of what to write…

Then thanks to the joys of “bumpkin language” once again providing a suitable sized opportunity for misinterpretation, I found the inspiration once more.

Stuck waiting round the coffee machine in the office, I decided to break that typical awkward silence with one of my less familiar colleagues and we defaulted to the usual back up convo of weekend plans.

Forgetting I was talking to an utter townie who has little to no background knowledge of my lifestyle, when he asked “what are you up to then?” I simply said, “oh just the usual now it’s winter, picking up on Saturday and mucking out the pig on Sunday.”

Queue the bemused look illuminate his face as he tried to work out a diplomatic way of asking if I was either into casual swinging or openly cheating on my husband…”Erm, aren’t you married?” He asked.

“Yeah but we don’t always spend the whole weekend together and he’s working both days anyway”, I said, blissfully unaware of the even larger hole I was digging myself.

“Riiiight, ok. I mean it’s great that you have such an open relationship, but that’s not the conventional type of activity I’d expected from a farmers wife, I have to say.”

Now queue the bemused look slowly creep over my face. “What on earth are you going on about?!” The penny suddenly dropped…”ohhhh you thought I meant picking up men!! Good god no, I’m not a tramp!”

My colleague looked visibly relieved that I hadn’t just massively over-shared to break an awkward coffee silence with a guy I barely knew. But the bemusement quickly appeared again, “so, sorry, but what do you mean then?”

Suddenly I found myself having to break down the set up of a day’s pheasant shooting and then got into the equally awkward conversation about what I have to do with the birds that are still alive when Trigger brings them back to me after picking them up.

He looked so appalled at the thought of me bopping a half dead pheasant on the head that, quite frankly, I’d rather have continued the conversation about extra-marital coital activities! At least he’d have stopped staring at me as if I was a murderous lunatic that he needed to hide both sharp and blunt objects from immediately.

I admit, only 3 years ago I myself balked at the idea of “people shooting something in the face for fun”, but it’s been an engrained part of culture in the farming community for over a hundred years, forming and renewing friendships that have been neglected over a busy summer & harvest and traditionally supplying them with a source of food over the leaner months, and learning more about it has given me a better understanding.

I like to uphold this tradition of using the birds for consumption as my attempt to justify the sport to myself (still unsure how successful this ploy is) and will always make sure to take home any birds my husband shoots, offering them to friends and colleagues who wouldn’t necessarily otherwise have access to eating pheasant.

So basically, what I’m getting at is, unless you want to be fed game bird and possibly chow down on a piece of lead, I’d advise not coming round to mine for dinner from now until about April…but if you don’t mind giving yourself an expensive dentist bill then come on over, there’s plenty to go round!

Until next time…