The 1% club

The calm of Rock HQ this morning was in complete contrast to last nights adventures. In the time it took to fetch a bucket of water to Kayleigh, walk back to the water trough and refill the bucket ready for morning, Iggle who had just munched through her late evening rations before quaffing down a couple of litres of ice cold spring water dropped on the straw a massively large but exceptionally dead boar piglet.
My beautiful and oh so patient wife was quicker off the mark than I was and she got to the pregnant porkers side first perched on the magic blue bucket (the one with allure) wearing wicket keepers gloves ready for piglet number two, which if anything like Mangalitza piglet births are expelled at high velocity. I, being totally practical and knowing the torch would fade to black within ten minutes abused Hazel and got her up the slope and into the Corral OK where here lights set the stage for the main show.
We waited. And waited. And then some.
Half an hour had passed, Iggle was pushing, not very well, but trying and achieving nothing. Not sure if the James Herriot books actually covered pig midwifery but assuming it had to be pretty much like sheep but with sharper teeth and less wool I put a tentative hand inside Iggles bits. A head, jaw, sharp pointy teeth, another large piglet, she pushed and I pulled and out popped an equally big piglet, not nearly so dead, a girl, but she soon gave up any attempt to stay around and be future sausages. Things were not looking great and then got a whole lot worse when piglet the third started coming out arse end first. No real problem, Google how to be birth partner to a saw and it will tell you that 40% of piglets come out rear end first and that only 1% of sows require help. Knowing full well which statistic now lay heaving at our knees we clung on to the hope that Iggle would keep calm and carry on. No such luck. Minutes became hours, she walked around, squatted, played on the big inflatable ball, we offered her a curry, all to no avail. I rather rudely copped a feel around inside and could not move piglet, I knew the theory, get the legs facing back but after half an hour of furtling around the three of us, me, Iggle and potential offspring made no progress. After an hour and a half the vet was called. Paul who was disappointed to miss the birth of Kobe the calf now had an opportunity to make up for it by helping Iggle. By the time he got here piglet had been stuck for two hours and Iggle was falling asleep. Under the headlights he set about trying to free the piglet. Hope was fading, the likelihood was that this and any remaining offspring would be still born. Fifteen minutes and a lot of grunting, not all from the pig, Paul told us he had got one leg forward, another five and the second leg, time slowed as he matched a heave to Iggles push and another large piglet joined us. It lay on the floor with the three of us watching for vital signs. It sneezed, coughed, rolled around and sprang to its feet. Not what any of us was expecting (its now called Gloria, as in I will survive) but it lifted the mood and pretty soon three more sows, all born head first, were clambering around the sty demanding breakfast.

His work done Paul had a quick look at Kobe, complimented Rock HQ on its fertility and left. I stayed in the pen until 3am as Iggle refused to sleep, being a bit sore she was still thinking that she had other piglets to come. We knew different. Finally she gave in, not before squishing a piglet but as I was there all was well.
Today the lack of sleep caught up with us all, Iggle has managed not to crush any piglets and they are a healthy happy bunch.
Thankfully the threat of rain all day was an ideal excuse not to concrete, instead we spent time playing with little t, trying to work out how to get Hazel back off the Corral OK, watching piglets and stroking the calf. There are too many time wasting opportunities here now.

Not a spectator sport

We have been waiting for our special delivery, and finally at 1.30 am today it arrived. Rock HQ is a fantastic place to live, with this as our back yard any child would love it here so we are very happy that the plan has finally come together and Tracey and I, already proud parents of two grown up successful ex rug rats now have a new ankle biter to introduce to the delights of smallholding.

The last 48 hours have convinced me beyond measure that child birth is not a spectator sport but ultimately that the stress, fear and worry is all worthwhile when you get to hold your new born for the first time.
I could tell you a tale of poor communication, of lost medical notes, not being listened too, lost property and being moved around the hospital, in one door and out the other like in a Warner Brothers Cartoon. I could mention being packed in a room like battery hens with a gang of foul mouthed 16 year olds all wanting to give birth to their third child while talking to Fanta and Chardonnay, their two daughters, and yelling that they should be good for grandma Kylie otherwise Keannu (presumably mummys new partner, whoever it was, he had ADHD, which was why he was phoning and haranguing the already overstretched midwives) would sort them out. But I wont mention it.

Because just when I thought the NHS could not get any worse they totally redeemed themselves by putting Tracey and I in a delivery suite with a colour TV. This meant Tracey could give birth whilst at the same time watch England stuff France at Twickenham in the 6 nations. Unfortunately this diversion did nothing to ease our little smallholders presence into the world and by 1 am today after over 24 hours of labour, Tracey lost the will to push and our would be offspring was losing the will to live. Here the NHS came into its own and within minutes of this fact being established by an excellent midwife called Sally, Tracey and I were inside an operating theatre (where I was told not to touch anything blue or green, well they might as well have given me a large button marked "do not press") We were put underneath a large blue sheet while a supremely efficient and expert medical team ensured that our child's bid to join us was ultimately successful. Hearing the cry was a relief, to actually see him was unbelievable, for it is a he, we did not know until Sally held him in front of us before taking him to be cleaned and checked. I could not help but cast a glance backward at this point where I was treated to the unnerving sight of various blue clad theatre staff clutching internal organs of my beautiful and oh so patient wife, and, while they were up to their elbows in blood trying to fit her back together, she was chatting happily about our son, now named Tristan.

His second name is Paul, because as stated previously on the pages of these tales the world needs more Pauls. Today has passed in a bit of a blur, and I must thank all those out there who have sent us so many blessings, good wishes and good lucks, and thanks to all those that visited and tried to, and thanks to Jill who is now a Grandma running the smallholding for us while Tracey and I come to terms with how lucky we are.

Cutting remarks

Apart from "I have exorcised the Demons!" I think the most worrying remark you can hear lying down on a doctors couch while he digs into your scalp with the business end of a scalpel is "You're bleeding like a stuck pig, sorry"

How I got into this predicament began a few weeks ago when I saw the GP for a well man check. All systems were checked, pronounced very healthy. Just as I was about to quit while ahead I just happened to mention a strange lump on my head that had seemed to double in size and was, quite frankly annoying. He examined the strange lump, declared it nothing to worry about, but if I wanted it got rid of, he was my man. Which is why yesterday, in the early morning sunshine I sat in the waiting room of the surgery for the minor operation to remove the alien from my head.

For some strange reason the anaesthetic didn't work very well, and having been given enough to kill an elephant the Doc was perplexed as to why I could still feel the scalpel point as he prodded around ET. Neither of us could understand why my jaw was numb and my mouth was now hanging like a tired dogs but we both agreed that ET should go home and the Doc should as he put it "Give it a go and see what happens"

So while he dug deep I thought of nice things like puppies, ice cream and tried not to think of the ice axe in the top of my head sensation. A chance comment along the lines of "Can you feel the blood running down your neck?" alerted me to the fact my life blood had spilled over the couch, and irritatingly for the receptionist who would be tasked to clean them, a box of kiddies toys. They were bright colours anyway, but additional splashes of red would not be appreciated, especially as they might suck them. The gaping wound caused by prising the alien from my head was stitched. The two stitches became three as I refused to stop bleeding. Finally with five stitches the flow was stemmed and as my scalp had been drawn together to close the gap I left the surgery minus alien but with an expression of complete surprise as any other facial configuration threatened to burst the stitches and increase the continued blood loss.

Not being able to afford the luxury of time off sick I went to do my duty, and in any case it was going to be an easy day out at the seaside.

Driving home my head was pounding so I took a little detour to see a friend called Paul who has an amazing job working for Thatchers Cider. Being the kindly sort he helped me out with one of natures painkillers, a cup of green tea. I think he missed the hint that I would have preferred one of the million pints of cider stored in the huge wooden barrels pictured above. If you drank two pints a day from one of these barrels it would take nearly four years to empty. As I was driving it was just as well we didn't open one, so I waited until I got home and drank a bottle he had given me. Cheers Paul.

Climb every mountain

Its unusual to see any pictures on these pages that are not taken close by, this is a photo of a very great friend of ours, Paul, seen climbing the difficult section of Mt Blanc a few years back. Paul and I were introduced at a dinner a long time ago and despite his absolutely rubbish jokes our friendship has survived intact. There was a moment when I did threaten to cut the rope on this climb if he repeated the same joke I had heard ad nauseum for several hours (altitude does strange things to tolerance) and as I was holding a very big sharp ice axe at the time he, for once, heeded the warning signs. He is a man of great intellect, often leaving me way behind as he begins explaining something technical, a man who is just fun to be with whenever and whatever. He has taken my particular sense of humour well, especially the day I turned up at his house unexpected and pretended I had been invited for the week, he is quite unflappable, and believe me hanging off a rope at 4000 metres with a death drop to your right with only me guiding you normally causes a minor flap in the most resolute of climbers, especially as I am prone to turn round, wave a lose end of rope in the air and ask in all seriousness whether it should be attached to something.

Paul is an all round good guy, a great and devoted family man and we have shared many good times together. He is currently climbing an absolute monster of a mountain having been diagnosed with a nasty type of illness beginning with c. Without doubt he is the most cheerful desperately ill person I have ever spoken to, and true to form he has turned some positives from this. There can be very few people in this world who can persuade their consultant to prescribe them a medicinal cider whilst lying in a hospital bed but he has managed this. His "humour" may have even improved as he told me the worlds shortest joke today. Dwarf shortage.

It might be some time before we can think about a stroll up some of the biggest mountains in Europe, where I can share with him the joys of holding his wife's over mitt while he throws up into it. But I am looking forward to a beer with a true friend in the new year, as soon as the cells in his body start to behave and the consultant prescribes real ale rather than a girls drink.

The thoughts and prayers of Rock HQ are with him and his family and we know he will get better, the world needs Paul's. He makes it an interesting place to be.

Make yourself at home!

This is Geisha our Anglo Nubian Goat who decided outside was too dark and scary, not to mention really uncomfortable so she let herself in the conservatory and had a few hours kip on the sofa. Tracey founde her there when she went to check the perimeter last night. Paul decided it was a good opportunity to make friends and try and persuade her not to climb onto his car.

Pauls a lumberjack, hes OK.