Oxford Mail

“Write a blog,” he said. “It will be fun.” Those were the boyfriend’s wise words a few months back . . . and I believed him. I still do in a way, the same as I believed him when he told me Jesus’s middle name was Horace. I know; gullible is in the dictionary. But here I am nevertheless, intent on becoming a countryside blogger. It can’t be that hard can it, even for a late starter? Seeing as I hail from a farm deep in the southern Oxfordshire countryside, I thought who better than to supply your weekly online fix of farmyard life. Or something along those lines. This countryside correspondent has farming contacts stretching from West Hagbourne to Wallingford, after all. Please don’t be fooled, lets get this clear from the off. I may come from farming stock, but I'm no farmer, so don’t expect to learn any intelligent facts about rural life. I enjoy the farmyard from the comfort of the sitting room, unless some pigs escape and they need scaring back into their pen. As my parents would happily testify, I like to embrace the countryside by opening windows. I subscribe to Heat magazine and not the Farmer’s Weekly. And my experience of tractors is generally that of being stuck behind one, wanting to ram it off the road. Did I mention I look terrible in wellies? But in my defence, I would add that in my hayday, aged 12, I was an astute rounder-upper of sheep, able to outrun even the most athletic ewe, and also a fine assistant to anyone wanting to artificially inseminate a cow. Keep your comments to yourself. However, my natural ability outdoors was ultimately called into question when, at the wheel of a Land Rover, I mowed down a barbed wire fence and screamed when a herd of cows ran towards me. So, my only other option was a career in journalism.