Charlie Flindt: Stuck sheep sparks ‘retirement rage’
© Steve Mann/Adobe Stock The first Christmas Day after semi-retirement felt subtly different.
We had all three children home as normal, but they’re all thoroughly grown up.
Long gone is the 6am tumult of excitement over Santa’s stockings; there’s now time for a leisurely morning – even a dog walk – before they stumble out of bed.
Hazel, of course, is hard at work over the Aga, preparing the megaturkey and trimmings.
See also: Charlie Flindt – contacting work puts pay to retirement
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What’s changed slightly is the type of presents. For decades, I’ve been able to drop hints about farm-related goodies, and Santa has obliged.
You can never have too many pairs of thick socks, and wellies just don’t last like they used to.
The occasional farm gadget would appear: a flowmeter for the sprayer, a cheap and cheerful guidance system for the tractor (perfect for tramline-free pastures) or a speaker upgrade when my Shaken Tailor CD has wrecked another pair of three-way Alpines.
The rural theme has now changed, of course.
There were still boxes of hankies (ideal for the manflu that arrived just before New Year’s Day), the traditional Viz annual, a Grenadier mug – but nothing that was destined for days on the farm. No farm diaries, either; repackaged freebies are no more.
Santa did excel himself with a personal numberplate to fit my retirement present, once he’d been assured by my children (who are now unquestionably arbiters of coolness) that private plates are no longer naff.
In fact, the whole pre-lunch present session was distinctly lacking in farm flavour.
Then the landline rang. Now, if the phone goes moments before Christmas lunch, it can only be one of two things.
It’s either our chums in Oz who have had too many coldies and fancy a chat, or it’s an emergency. Either way, it’s not to be ignored.
“Is that Mr Flindt?” said the caller. That ruled out long distance from Perth. I said it was.
“I’m so sorry to ring you at this time,” the female caller went on, “but I’m out walking, and there’s a sheep stuck in the brambles.”
I pointed out that we no longer have any sheep, and none of our pastures host sheep anymore, so she must be mistaken in ringing us.
“No, you don’t understand, “ she went on, “I’m over in West Meon, near Mr Smith’s [not the farmer’s real name] farm.”
It took me a moment or two to get my head round this; bear in mind we were getting stuck into some coldies too.
“Forgive me for being daft,” I said, trying to keep some sort of Christmas goodwill going, “but why in the name of blazes are you ringing me? You’re five miles away!”
“I know,” she said. “But your name came up, and you’re a farmer, and you’ll know what to do.”
I kid you not – those were her words. I’m afraid there was a bit of an outbreak of “bah humbug”.
I told her a stuck sheep three parishes away wasn’t my business and that I was sure that Mr Smith would be doing the rounds imminently, checking his stock – and wished her a Merry Christmas through slightly gritted teeth.
“Blimey,” said Boy No 2 after I’d hung up. “Once upon a time you’d have rushed out to help. You have retired.”