Now, the only irritation she suffers is the dangfool Two-Legs who takes a bleeping, flashing device out to the farrowing pen, wakes her from her slumbers and then doesn’t deliver any food.

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Schools were closed for three days this week. According to the boys, this was because ‘it’s a holiday’.

I agreed: they were home to give me a holiday, especially with my fractured wrist enforcing ‘loafing’ upon me.

I sent the boys out to scrub the farrowing pen, make beds for the sow and piglets, freshen the hen’s nest boxes, and do a few other things.

They claimed it was hard work but I’m sure I heard songs and saw smiles. As well as some unsanctioned loafing.

Eventually, I let the boys come in to make me hot chocolate and pancakes with honey. They promptly helped themselves.

They’re lucky school’s back tomorrow.

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Just before lunch, the Other Half drove us to Inverurie so I could buy a 12mm HSS bit to bore new holes in the steel creep. (Fortunately, today is a school holiday in our part of Scotland.) With the new bit, and a chip butty tucked away, I was able to resume work on the farrowing pen. Drilling steel with one hand, especially a non-dominant hand isn’t easy but, with care, it can be done.

Drilling concrete can be done, too, but it’s not a pleasant experience using an 1,100 watt hammer drill in one hand while a fractured right wrist vibrates in rhythm with the drill. I’d taken my pain killers an hour earlier, but… And yes, the information sheet did say “do not operate machinery”. We have a sow due to farrow and the pen must be ready, so I gritted my teeth and got on with it,

Then I did it all over again. I had to take a breather after boring the two holes in the walls. I also decided against drilling the final two holes in the floor. The creep really needs four bolts to secure it to the floor but they can wait for a couple of months. I’m not tough enough to bore four holes in concrete one-handed in one day.

The OH couldn’t manage the drill, but she positioned the creep for me while I aligned the bolts through the steel creep and into the walls. Once I had the bolts finger tight she tightened them while I had another breather. Okay, more of a “stand in the corner and swear for five minutes” pain relief session.

The M12 bolts securing the creep to the floor needed more force so I was called upon once more. Just as I finished, G, the farmer from across the road, arrived. He’d finished his day job and nipped over to help before doing his farm work. He fitted the trough and helped the boys pack the tools away, while the OH swept the pen out. It still needs to be washed, disinfected and bedded down, but we’re nearly there although I had to spend four hours on the sofa afterwards..

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Delilah, one of our Berkshire sows, is due to farrow within the next seven to 10 days.

However, I dismantled the farrowing pen in the byre to renovate it. I completed the renovations but was planning to refit the creep and trough last week.

It wasn’t to happen. I dislocated and fractured my wrist, bringing my share of the croft work to a halt.

The Other Half took over the daily chores, with the boys assisting, but wasn’t able to refit the pen.

We could have left Delilah to farrow in her hut, which we’ve done before, but it’s not ideal in winter  and especially not when the OH might be working on her own.

It’s both an animal welfare issue and a safety issue.

The only solution was to grit my teeth and start the refitting myself.

The first step was to remove the corroded remnants of the old rawl-bolts from the floor. I screwed two nuts onto the first bolt, sat on the floor with my back to the wall for leverage, and try to unscrew the bolt by turning the lower nut.

Despite having taken my lunchtime painkillers an hour before—to maximise their effect by the time I started work—my eyes just about popped out of my head with the pain.

I shifted position several times before settling on one where the pain was minimised. I was able to apply considerable force to the spanner and was quickly rewarded…

…with a CRACK!

I sheared the bolt.

I shifted my attention to the second bolt and was locking down the top nut when I realised I had an audience.

First, the Wee ‘Un with his Mum’s camera. Then the Big Lad who came in for a laugh. Finally, the OH and G, our farmer neighbour.

After a good laugh, G took over most of the job. He ground the bolts off with an angle grinder, drilled new holes in the concrete floor and was stopped when we discovered we didn’t have a 12mm HSS bit to bore new holes in the steel frame of the creep.

Instead, we decided to pressure wash the trough and refit. It didn’t happen either.

The hose between the tap and the hose reel failed, spraying water everywhere. G cut a new length of hose, but the brass connector refused to fit properly.

By now, it was time for his tea and ours so we quit for the day, deciding to make a fresh start tomorrow.

I collapsed on our sofa while the OH reheated leftover paella.

At least that proved successful, giving us a decent end to an otherwise unfruitful day.

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- – - – -

Thanks also to BS and WH. We’ve covered all our hospital costs for last week, plus the costs we’ll incur going for the first check-up, thanks to the support from them and JB. It makes a big difference knowing those costs won’t impact on our budget.

Does anyone need a quintain? Trying to clout knights would be far more interesting than lounging about the house with one arm stuck in the air.

I’m supposed to keep my right arm, with its fractured wrist, elevated at 90 degrees to the ground until I see the consultant next week.

The consultant also instructed me to take it ‘very gentle’ until I’ve seen him again and to ‘take it gentle’ from then until the cast comes off at six weeks. After that, I’m on light duties until at least six months have passed.

***** ***** ****** ****** *****!

My arm inside the cast itches from contact with the plaster. One of the side effects of the dihydrocodeine I’m taking for the pain is itching. So I’m itching everywhere.

I’m not allowed a proper wash or shower until the waterproof cover for the cast arrives. So I’m grotty and itchy.

The clothes I can put on by myself are limited to what the boys describe as my two ‘grandad shirts’ and a zippered cardigan—yes, more grandad wear. After five days, they’re dirty and itchy.

I’m accustomed to being outside and active. So, too, is our Border Terrier, Harvey. He and I are both stuck inside, itching for somthing to do.

In fact, Harvey is scratching an itch  on his right shoulder at the moment. I have a similar itch and can’t scratch it. I’m tempted to nail the dog to a stick and use him as a back scratcher.

I’m also itching to throw the TV outside and whack it a few times. I thought evening television was often dismal. After attempting to watch daytime television, I can confidently say evening television is the pinnacle of human culture. And it doesn’t make me itch.

The pile of library books is relegated to the corner. I’m itching to bin them, but that wouldn’t be taking it easy.

I’m also itching for a bigger library, open for more than a handful of hours per week, and with a decent selection of books so I don’t have to borrow 50 pieces of dross to find one gem.

Six months of itching and bitching. I won’t need a physiotherapist, I’ll need a mental hygienist—that’s a psychotherapist armed with an industrial pressure washer.

Itch, itch, itch.

Life’s a bitch

When you cannae scritch

Your itch.

I’m looking forward to tea as we found some decent beef marked down to half price while doing the shopping. It’s only a small amount, but I have plans for a Madras-style curry. With a cider for me, a beer for the Other Half, and ice-cream for dessert for the boys.

It probably doesn’t sound like a major treat to many, but for us it’s the sort of thing we only indulge in four or five times a year.

So I’m thinking pleasant curry thoughts as check the chickens and collect their eggs. They were fed earlier but not all have gone in to roost, even though it’s dark.

I make a mental note to shut their popholes later.

Pigs next.

Delilah is first. Matriarch of the herd and due to farrow soon, it’s only fitting that her bucket of feed is prepared first.

After making up her feed, I fill another bucket with water—the troughs are frozen—and head out to the hill.

I’m careful going up the ramp behind the byre. It’s heavily iced down the centre but the edges aren’t too bad.

In fact, all the tracks are iced but we’ve had worse.

Delilah is pleased to see the food arrive, but she wants an ear-rub first. I oblige, then pour her dinner into the feed trough. As she scoffs, I clear ice from her water trough and top it up from my bucket of water.

I check Delilah’s hut, fencing and gates, then head back to the buildings. I walk back down the race, take a couple of steps out onto the hill track and…

WHOOSH!

I’m sliding down the hill.

Fast.

I’m veering towards the electric fence.

Very fast.

I know I’m going to hit the strainer post.

Extremely hard.

I don’t want to cave my face in. I don’t want ribs embedded in my lungs.

I drop the buckets. Fling my arms up in front of my chest and face, crossing them and putting my palms out.

WHAM! THUMP.

I’m sitting on the ground at the bottom of the post.

I know my right forearm, wrist and hand are in a very bad state. They feel bad. And in the dim glow of the headtorch they look bad—they’re stepped.

My hand is uppermost. It steps down to my wrist. It steps down to my forearm.

Fortunately, I’m wearing heavy, elasticated thermal gloves. The right glove is holding everything together.

The Other Half is not expecting me back inside for half an hour. I’m too far away to shout for help. And it’s too cold to stay put.

I try to stand, but can’t. The ground is too slippery. The post is too slippery. And without the use of my right arm, I can’t push myself to my feet.

There’s only one thing for it.

I grit my teeth and use my left hand to grab the first wire of the electric fence.

Jolt. Jolt. Jolt.

I haul myself to my knees. My right arm protests with a fierce surge of pain.

GRRRRRR.

I grab the next wire of the electric fence.

Jolt. Jolt. Jolt.

I lurch one leg up, then the other.

I claw at the next wire on the fence.

Jolt. Jolt. Jolt.

My right arm protests even more.

GRRRR.

I collect the buckets in my left hand, raise it up to support my right arm and, with many a clatter and bang, stagger back to the house.

Throwing the back door open, I shout for the OH.

“Get the car keys and the boys. I’ve smashed my arm and we need to go to hospital. Now!”

As they spring into action, I check myself over under the lights. My right hand, wrist and forearm are definitely not connected as they should be.

In fact, they look like three separate objects stuck inside a glove. Not good.

I can’t get a sling on, so I’ll have to support my right arm with my left. The glove will have to stay on to keep everything in place. But, on the bright side, it’s a closed injury.

In a few minutes, we’re on the road, first to our village hospital so I can find out if there’s good circulation in my hand or not. If there is, we’ll make our own way to Aberdeen. If there isn’t, it will be an ambulance.

There goes the curry and cider.

Our travel plans were not wrecked by the looming snowpocalypse, although I concede things might have been different if we’d planned to fly to the summit.

The Big Lad couldn’t find a blanket of snow atop Dunnideer, more’s the pity as he could have had a fine snowball fight with his brother.

The Other Half didn’t seem to need a blanket either.

Apparently the Met Office issued nine warnings of treacherous conditions. Quick OH, get up, run for shelter!

We did encounter a fresh breeze on our journey, but if the Queen could brave freezing temperatures in a fur-collared coat then Harvey, our Border Terrier, could do the same in his.

Harvey and I were in chaos as the sub-zero temperatures gave us no respite from the Siberian deep freeze. Yes, family outings are so tough when Britain is frozen solid.

In fact, it was was sufficiently warm for the soil to be worked as only the top inch or so was frozen. Birds were singing, the gorse was coming into bloom, the hawthorn and dogrose were budding, and the pigs were skipping about.

I did wonder if I had the month wrong. It is early February, isn’t it?

Delilah and our other Berkshire pigs were all very pleased with the mild weather, skipping, frolicking and digging with abandon.

It was almost unbelievably bright and sunny for a February day in north-eastern Scotland. Not only that, but there was no wind.

I made a good start on clearing the winter’s detritus from the vegetable patch, then started dismantling our raised beds.

The Other Half has complained for years that they’re too wide for her at two metres so, with the ground workable, I decided to uproot the boards and start reducing them to 1.75 metres wide.

While I worked, Harvey kept an eye on the bonfire. Well, someone had to. It’s just a shame we can’t throw the electronic media on it as we could with actual newspapers.

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Not one of my better images, thanks to poor light, no tripod and a high ISO, but I wanted to show the day’s end from the top of our hill. I fed the pigs, locked the chickens up and was taking Harvey, our Border Terrier, out for a quick session of ‘find the rabbits’ when the clouds lifted just enough to let the last of the light through.