U and Non-U

Britain is still afflicted with a rigid class system. I say "still" because if you've ever read anything by Jane Austen, the characters she described in the 18th century are alive and well in modern Britain today. Or should I say "modern" Britain.

As an American, the class system quite frankly grates on me. It's not from envy, I promise. It's from a deep-seated sense of social justice, probably instilled in me as a child watching Sesame Street. Sesame Street taught me and my generation what it means to be fair, respectful, and community-minded. And that everyone had the opportunity to do well and be judged on his or her own merits. Not so in Britain. You are born into your class, and your accent, taste (or lack of it) and your parents' education or profession will always define you. You are a U (upper classes) or you are a non-U (middle classes on downwards).

It's part of the undercurrent of my daily life and I don't usually rant about it, but it's been in the forefront of my mind this week. Ever since the young lord called Mike. He invited us to the big house to celebrate the 20 year anniversary of Mike's employment as Head Gamekeeper to the family. 20 years' service is very respectable and I thought it was kind of them to remember and mark the event.

But I'm realistic. I didn't expect much. Staff in private employ have more in common with livestock. You're here to improve the estate, and the employee (and their family) essentially belongs to the estate owners. If you're really lucky, you're more like a favored pet and your life is marginally improved. We're not, so it isn't.

I know to some degree anyone who works for a living is indentured to the company which pays his or her wage. The difference is when you go home at night, your time is your own. In service, you are always 'on the clock'. You are expected to do whatever is asked of you at any time, whether it's to park cars for a party, collect the Bishop of Winchester for a christening, or dress like a Roman centurion and stand on a plinth in the depths of winter. I could tell you some stories.

Anyway, we were summoned to the house this morning at 10.45 am. If they really wanted to thank us they would have left us to catch up on our sleep before the season gets busy again, but that's not how a U thinks. I had to take a shower, fight with my hair (the Us have straight manageable hair so I tried to make the effort) and put on a pair of Spanx and a skirt. Anyone who's worn Spanx knows that in and of itself is enough to make anyone disinclined to be social.

Although we were invited guests on this occasion, we knew to use the servant's entrance. We were led through the kitchen into the library where half the family had roused themselves from bed to thank Mike for his years of service. Lord and Lady S, the middle son and a nephew with spouses in tow, and children with their nanny. We were offered a glass of champagne and a water cracker, toasted Mike, then made 10 minutes of small talk on approved subjects (a non-U should always know what subjects are acceptable when speaking to a U. Politics, religion, or anything of a personal nature is verboten). We discussed the upcoming shoot season, hunting, how the nephew's young dog was progressing with its training. Mike diffused a situation between Lord S and one of the children regarding shooting of ducks out of season yesterday. Mike is incredibly diplomatic in these situations, and has often taken the rap or masterminded a cover-up for the indiscretions of the young lords when they were growing up. He accepts this because he has been thoroughly indoctrinated. He knows he's a non-U born to serve these Us, as his mother did, and as her parents did.

So that was it. 20 years' service equals a thank you, a glass of champagne, and a water cracker. I know the thank you was heartfelt, but you'll forgive me for thinking it's not a fair exchange for Mike's loyalty and skills. Maybe it's just because I'm an American and I don't get the system.

Once I got home and wrestled myself out of the Spanx, I resolved to invest and save wisely, for the sole purpose of buying Mike his freedom from indentured servitude. I expect the de-programming will take longer. I want Mike to know the freedom of working for himself. Or at least the freedom to say 'no' to posing as a hypothermic centurion. If we ever have children, they are only watching Sesame Street.

Barbara the Weather Chicken

Anyone who works outdoors quickly develops an obsession with the weather. This is particularly true if you live on an island like England with its changeable island climate. Large land masses like the US mean more predictable weather patterns, and the systems stay in place longer. One sunny day is usually followed by a few more. Here we get sun, rain, sleet, and snow all in a day. And this time of year, it feels like a predominance of rain and miserly amounts of sun.

Anyhoo, the BBC is our usual provider for weather reports. But we have since found another source - Barbara our silkie hen. She doesn't so much predict the weather as embody it. She is a testament to what the day's been like weather-wise. Here's 'dry and sunny day' Barbara:

And here's Barbara letting us know it's been a wet and wintry day:

So we've got a chicken that can tell the weather. Now, if only I can teach one of the dogs to read Tarot cards, we could take this show on the road.

Land Update

I just heard from the land agent that the sellers have accepted our offer. We had to pony up a bit more than I wanted but it's still in our means. Just.

I feel slightly sick to my stomach, turning all our ready monies into assets which we hope will show a decent return on investment, both as land and as a return on crops like hay, pigs, and sheep. Mike is confident and forward-thinking about this kind of thing, moreso than me. I get mired in familiarity. But we both agree it's a reasonable risk to take.

I won't count my proverbial chickens until all the paperwork is signed off and the deed handed over. As this is England, we are vulnerable to being 'gazumped'. It's a practice peculiar to England (I think it's illegal in Scotland) and very unsettling to any home- or landbuyer. At any point in this process up until everything's signed, the sellers can pull out and sell to another buyer if they're offered more money. As this bit of land hadn't even been listed (i.e. made public that it was for sale) and in less than 24 hours we were one of two buyers, we are holding our breath that we won't be gazumped. We're paying market price, but I'm sure there are others willing to pay above market without even blinking, like relocated Londoners who want grazing for a daugher's beloved but retired pony. We can't compete with city money.

But we could get lucky.

Sunday

At the moment, the lambs are still sleeping in the kennel where they're safe from predators and where there's a heat lamp to keep the chill out. During the day they're coming out onto the grass to get some sun and to watch the world go by. They're keen to follow me as it's nearly lunchtime -

Who needs a sheepdog?

And when it's time to go back to their kennel for dinner, they are just as happy to oblige -

And then the clean up crew moves in to tidy any leftover lamb pellets -

Everyone's happy.

While the animals were feasting, Mike and I went to the clay shooting ground. Mike mounted and fired his gun for the first time since our accident. These are the tools of his trade and he's been worried he won't be able to employ them to any effect, and afraid the recoil would aggravate his shoulder.

He tried the 20 bore and the semi-auto. He's not mounting a gun as well as he used to yet and it took its toll on his shoulder. But it's a first step. I can fill the vermin shooting gap (along with others) until he's better. It will just take a bit of time.

Some news

We heard through the rural telegraph that a small field was coming up for sale not far from us. Only ten acres and it needs some fencing work, but it's enough that I can expand my flock of sheep, rotate the horses' grazing and even keep a few weiners. We drove by and looked it over. Talked it over. As home accountant, I reviewed our finances and did the sums. We can afford it if we pull our belts in for at least the next year. We've put in an offer, but we can't go any higher. And there's another interested party. We are keeping our fingers crossed anyway.

Back at home, one of the bantam hens is poorly, the horses needed their worming treatments, and Pearl has a mild case of bloat. I set up a small pen of sheep hurdles so the lambs can spend warmer days on grass in the sun, next to the apple tree. I also replaced the broken panes of glass in the greenhouse, collected two buckets of rotted horse manure for the tomato beds, and put my seed potatoes out to chit. And I took the dogs out for a run behind the quad bike because it was such a pretty evening with the low winter sun.

I can't remember being so happy, even without an extra 10 acres. But I'm still hoping.

And what the new lambs have taught me

An addendum to yesterday's post - something the new batch of lambs has taught me: Lamb milk replacer is just that, replacement milk for lambs. It does not in any way replace milk in your morning coffee. If you run out, drink your coffee black. Trust me on this.

However, those little battery-powered whizzy sticks for frothing milk for your cappucino? Brilliant at mixing the replacement milk powder. It breaks down all the lumps so the teats don't get blocked up.

I just thought I'd share.

Big Lamb and Little Lamb

I collected our lamb carcases today. They have hung in a friend's chiller for 8 days and were ready to break down for the freezer. I worried that I would get as upset as I did when I dropped them off to the abattoir, so to steel myself I took a valium. I expect real farmers don't self-medicate either. 

I didn't want to show any weakness in front of Peggy, the local butcher who agreed to supervise while I processed my two lamb carcases. I needn't have worried. In truth, once I carried the first carcases into the butchery room, I didn't even associate it with my lambs. Now it was simply food.

And not healthy food - you want to see the layer of fat on those lambs! Mike admitted that, as their days were numbered, he was giving them extra rations. A kind of last supper for the condemned. But as I kept putting off the inevitable, their last supper turned into a month-long feast of rolled barley and sugar beet.

I started to cut my first half lamb at 11am. I finished cutting up, bagging and cleaning the butchery at 4.30pm. For 5 hours I stood at the block cutting, sawing, removing excess fat, de-boning, rolling, and cleaving. Peggy brought me a cup of tea that I drank while I worked.

By the last lamb half, I could finally remember the sequence of cuts for myself and I was getting into a rhythm, aided by being overtired and hungry ( I'd missed breakfast). I stopped overthinking and just cut. In a kind of Karate Kid 'wax-on-wax-off' epiphany I learned a few things:

1) When you're tired enough to finally give into the task, you relax - you don't try and force your knife into the meat and the whole process goes more smoothly. This also makes you less likely to slip and drive the blade into your own hand.

2) A fatty lamb is a waste, not only because it means you fed them more costly inputs than necessary but because it takes a bloody long time to remove all that fat from each joint.

3) Lamb fat is a miracle cure for chapped hands

I also learned some things from the carcases themselves. My feeding programme was too concentrate heavy; they would have thrived on more grass or haylage. Their glands were all clear, no infections so they were healthy. However, one lamb had its liver rejected at vet inspection due to liver fluke so I must include a flukicide in the ewes' worming programme.

Had I turned around and rescued my lambs from the abattoir, the lamb with liver fluke would have died relatively soon and none of that meat would have been fit for consumption. Fluke is usually associated with wet grazing; my lambs only grazed a dry paddock so I was unprepared for a fluke problem.

Here's the result of my 5 hours' work, still in the back of the truck. I'm just off to see Paul our estate stalker. He's kindly let me use his vacuum-packing machine to prepare this meat for the freezer. It will last 12 months this way; I don't want to waste any of it. And I'm paying Paul in lamb meat - a shoulder for his Sunday roast. I don't think I'm ready to eat any lamb just yet, but I think we will be enjoying it sooner than we expected too. I'm proud of our first lambs.