Flindt on Friday: Midsummer maladies, farmer fashion

A friend who’d been away for a couple of weeks rang for a much-needed catch-up. “How did the Mamma Mia party go?” he asked.

I told him it had been a great success; the rain had stayed away, many local farmers had been seen busting their moves in the most hideous 1970s-themed outfits, and the band’s two Abba songs had gone down very well.

A great success – apart from catching Covid.

See also: Farmers Weekly Podcast Ep 114: Heatwave warning and harvest progress

About the author

Charlie Flindt

Charlie Flindt is a National Trust tenant in Hampshire, now farming 40ha of recently “de-arabled” land with his wife Hazel – who still runs a livestock enterprise. He also writes books and plays in a local band.

Read more articles by Charlie Flindt

“Covid? You sure?” I explained that only a couple of days later my back hurt, my eyeballs hurt, and all my hair follicles were tingling.

“Don’t be daft,” he said. “That’s probably nothing more than the combined effects of a vicious hangover, too much lifting of huge keyboards and the ghastly and traumatic memory of Farmer Dunford in Pastel Polyester.” He had a point.

The Abba suit © Charlie Flindt

Here I go again…

“But I’ve been lying awake in a pool of sweat,” I went on, “trying to find something to sleep under that keeps the voracious mosquitoes at bay without simultaneously basting me in my own salty juices.” I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard him retching at this mental image.

“We’ve all been lying awake in pools of sweat,” he said, once he’d recovered. “It’s been the most spectacular heatwave in a billion years – or ‘since 1976’ as we oldies call it.”

I challenged him to explain the neck ache and the raw sinuses. “That’s easy. I had a good walk round your place the other evening, and you’ve been out with the hedgetrimmer.

“Very smart the lanes look, too. But all those hours looking back over your left shoulder with the aircon on full blast are bound to have an effect.

“I’ve lost count of the number of pub trips we’ve done during the hedgetrimming season when we’ve had to sit and listen to you bleating on about your stiff neck and your painful nasal recesses.”

And the sneezing? That’s definitely a sign of Covid. “Look, Charlie,” he explained patiently. “One of the many reasons your career choice was highly questionable was your hayfever. It’s why your father had to stop growing grass seed when you came home.

“It’s right up there with your lactose intolerance and your wheat allergy in the ‘what was he thinking?’ department.

Thanks to the hottest July in a trillion years, the pollen levels have been sky-high, and you’ve just been out making hay. Might not that be why you’re sneezing?”

It’s a game we play

My battle to win sympathy wasn’t going well. And then I remembered the tests.

Endless plastic bags littering the bathroom sink while I poked things up my nose (more sneezing), squeezed them into little phials of magic liquid and watched nervously for two lines to come up.

I’d had at least two of these “positives”. “Are you sure?” he asked somewhat suspiciously. “This is the time of year when you farmers get very creative with different felt-tip pens.”

I have no idea what he was on about, of course. “And even if you are ‘positive’ – what are you going to do about it? That combine won’t drive itself.”

He’s right. The “symptoms” of midsummer farming are all but indistinguishable from those of Covid, and even if I have at last fallen victim to the dreaded bug, there’s no point in me ringing in sick to plead for a couple of days off. Who would I ring?

I’ve just got to stock up with plenty of water and paracetamol, and get stuck in. I might clear the The Best of Abba CD from the combine cab, though; the last thing I need is to be reminded of that suit.