I worked in the shop yesterday morning. A man came in and asked where the bananas came from. “Colombia” I said. “A long way to travel” he pointed out. I agreed, but said that they come by boat not plane. Besides, bananas can’t be grown commercially here – they have to cross the ocean, whether from the Americas, Africa or India. He then asked about avocados. And lemons.

As you know, I’m all in favour of eating food in season and grown locally. But really, if you want to eat citrus fruit, you have to accept that it will not be grown here. It is technically possible, but not on a commercial scale and only by using generated heat. What would be green about erecting vast hothouses to grow banana trees, when they can be easily grown in vast quantities in their native (or suitable adopted) environment?

After the man had left (having bought his bananas, as well as English fruit and veg), Al said that most people have little idea about the practicalities of food production. Not long ago, he had a young couple asking for English apples – “why do your apples come from New Zealand, the USA, Chile, South Africa?” Al had to explain that there are no ripe English apples yet and the stored ones have all finished except for the cookers. Another month and the new season apples will be coming in; the Spartan, Discovery and all the other crisp, fresh summer apples – though customers will still not want to wait for October for the Cox’s Orange Pippins to start to ripen and so he will still buy New Zealand Cox’s until then, as well as South African Granny Smith’s and French Golden Delicious.

People still want infinite choice, but they want it locally grown and do not understand about seasons. Nor do they understand about farming.

There has been renewed discussion about the amount of methane produced by cows, and a suggestion that if alternative fodder crops were grown, they might burp and fart less (excuse this rare descent into vulgarity). On the Today programme they had a keen vegetarian in to suggest that we should stop eating beef instead, so that the cattle need not exist to produce all this methane. As usual, the interviewer was hopeless and did not point out any of the flaws in the argument.

I’m not, of course, knocking vegetarianism, nor am I saying one word in favour of intensive animal farming. I’m not saying we need to eat meat. But she was not talking about the ethics of the matter, so that is not the relevant factor here.

She said that you need more land to graze animals than you do to grow crops. This is true, but she was not asked about the land that is not suitable for cultivation. What about the Yorkshire Dales, the Welsh hill farms, the Sussex Downs, Romney Marsh? – all grassland that needs to be grazed and are ideal for sheep. Around here, what about the water meadows and winter-flooded marshes, that are grazed by cows or mown for hay or silage?

Just around my house, there are several fields. One is part of the flood plain. If the river overflows, it floods onto the field and the water can gradually soak in to the ground, helping to top up the underground aquifers from which Norfolk gets its water supply (although this is the area of the country with the lowest rainfall, we have never had a hosepipe ban). If it were ploughed for crops, a drainage system would have to be put in and this water would be channelled away and wasted.

The next field is marked on the Ordnance Survey* maps as Anglo Saxon earthworks. It is ancient grassland and has never been ploughed, although gravel has been extracted in the past. It is full of bumps and hollows and has a wide range of wild flowers and grasses that have taken centuries to establish themselves. It is never artificially fertilised, only by the dung of the cows that graze it. It would not be permitted to plough it up and it would, being light sand over gravel, be poor land anyway.

The next field, though flat, is also sand on gravel. It makes a good hay meadow. It could be ploughed, as the fourth field is, but it is not very fertile and does not hold moisture well. The best way of improving its fertility is by adding whole lots of farmyard manure. Cow muck. Or pig muck. Just like I dig into my vegetable garden. Yes, I make compost, but this improves soil structure more than fertility.

So it’s by no means as simple as all of us converting to vegetarianism even, as she suggested, if it were done over several years. But the thing that I couldn’t believe the interviewer didn’t mention, when all she went on about was not eating beef, was that many, and I should think most, of the cattle are not primarily raised for beef. They are dairy cows.

Now, veganism wasn’t even mentioned. I don’t know if she is vegan. If you are, from planet-saving or animal-welfare motives, a vegetarian, I’m not sure that there is a place for commercial dairy farming. Certainly, for reducing methane production there isn’t. So why didn’t the idiot interviewer (I think I know which one it was, but they are pretty all as bad as each other, so I won’t single one out) even ask whether she thinks we should eat and drink dairy products?

*I had to fill in a form from the Diocese the other day – that’s the Church area administered by the Bishop, of Norwich, in this case. I was amused that they asked for the village church’s Ordinance Survey number.

I told you how Tilly joined the family here and here. As you will see, I argued strongly to have her. This isn’t something I do often – not that I don’t bicker, quarrel, row, even – but I don’t argue. If someone feels more strongly than I do, I give in. Often, I don’t mind, so I let the other person have his or her way. Maybe I see that I’m on a losing wicket, so I may bat like a Boycott, stonewalling all day, but I won’t resent the inevitable winner.

But occasionally, I am right. And then my way will prevail and I don’t care if I make myself unpopular in the process, because the result will prove my case. And Tilly proved this, as I was sure she would.

Chester came to us differently. I went to have coffee with a friend, who was raising money for a charity – can’t remember which, but the thing was to invite 8 people for coffee and ask them to pay *whatever*, each of them asked 4, each of them asked 2. I was one of 4. Bridget was another. And she mentioned that the chap who delivered horse feed to them had a bitch which had recently pupped. This was at a time when I was on the lookout for a puppy. I asked about the parents. The father was Rusty, the Irish setter that belonged to friends of mine (I knew her from WI and he was our milkman). The mother, Mindy, was a bearded collie, more or less. This sounded good. I asked Bridget to pass on my phone number and, a day or two later, Zoë rang me and invited me to see the pups.

On the way, the Sage and I talked. That is, I talked. Well…

I said that I’d like a boy, A blond boy. He was happy with that. When we arrived, it transpired that there were three blond boys, but they were keeping the biggest and palest and would call him Morph. There were also two black boys and two black girls. They were three weeks old and we were the first visitors and could have first pick. I looked at the two blond boys, who were identical except for a few white hairs on the head of one pup. My pup. “Which one do you think?” I asked the Sage. “This one” he said. Our pup was the same as my pup. Well, of course he was.

They were born on the 17th October, so they would be ready to leave their mother a few days before Christmas. We talked to the children and all agreed that a new puppy was worth a quiet Christmas. We visited once a week – Zoë is a sweet woman and always welcomed us, but I didn’t like to call every day. When we brought him home, we boxed him in for the night in part of the kitchen and I spent most of the next few nights downstairs settling him when he cried. Then I let him have the run of the kitchen and he didn’t cry again.

I’m not good at choosing names, very indecisive. I suggested Zebedee, as he was so very bouncy. My daughter said that Zeb would be fine. I didn’t like Zeb, I wanted Zebedee. Blokes, sensibly, kept out of all this. Then El suggested Chester. I liked it, as did we all.

Things are a bit busy just now. All stuff that was put on one side until the festival was over now have to be caught up with, and the rain having stopped, some vital weeding has been done, as well as cutting back bits of hedge that were making the drive hard to navigate. It was a bit like Sleeping Beauty’s castle round here, except I played the Handsome Prince rôle, chopping my way through the brambles. The farmer declared his intention of, finally, cutting the grass on the front field – it seems to have bypassed turning into hay altogether this year, having started to seed and then just continued growing; however, it will be all right for silage. Anyway, we quartered all four acres questingly, armed with a garden fork and a couple of bin bags, and pulled up a moderate quantity of ragwort, which is a nastily pernicious poison and which, though ignored by livestock while growing, will be eaten in hay or silage.

Later, we chatted in a thinking ahead manner, and discovered that we are in complete accord with one another, which filled us both with great pleasure. A couple of them are in the nature of dreams that may come true – hey, why not? – but one is, with luck, not far beyond the horizon.

When we went on our WI outing last week, a friend was telling us that her dog and another friend’s bitch had had an (arranged) assignation, and it is hoped that puppies will result. I was immediately interested, as they are both mongrels of a labradorish sort, come from lovely and friendly families, and our darling late setter cross Chester was the brother of P & B’s (the bitch’s owners) dog Harvey.

The Sage kept quiet.

Over the next few days, I told the family, at various times, about this, and still the Sage said nothing. Now, he’s a tender-hearted chap who finds it hard to say “no” to me, but knows that in a matter like this, I wouldn’t go ahead without an actual “yes”.

Finally, this evening, since we were having such a jolly conversation, I asked him directly what he thought.

He Say Yes!!(!)

‘Course, we don’t know yet if puppies are on the way, or how many are spoken for already. But these seem minor details.

I said, apologetically to Brenda, who was running the cake stall, that I hadn’t and wouldn’t have time to make her any cakes. She is polite and kind and said she quite understood. I wondered if she’d like jam instead? So I went to the fête bearing four pots of strawberry jam and four of marmalade, and they all sold quite quickly, so I had not let the side down too badly.

And the weather! The sun always shines for the festival, so none of us had been too dismayed by the filthy weather we’ve been having for weeks, but today’s was far better than we’d expected. It was so windy yesterday, it would have been quite hard to manage to put up the stalls and bunting (no, I didn’t help, I was in the shop this morning), but it has been sunny and warm all day, with a light breeze.

I pigged out, a bit literally, on sausages. I didn’t have breakfast before I left so when, around 11, Al went to the cafe to get a sausage bap, I rather keenly asked for one too. I didn’t eat much of the bread, but the two (not very large) sausages went down well. At about three o’clock, with a pint and a half of good beer under my belt (well, I’d not drunk anything at all and I was thirsty), I thought i’d head for the food van. El recommended the hot dogs – proper sausages, she said, not canned frankfurters – so, what the hell – and the chips beckoned too. Though I did share them…

This evening, you will be astonished to learn, I drank water. Only water.

Just going next door to babysit. If I get around to it, I’ll finish later. With pictures!!(!)

Later – it’ll be tomorrow after all, darlings.

Our little dog has some way to go before she manages to blag her way towards emulating the magnificent Four Dinners, but she’s making a start.

It’s our village festival weekend. Tonight, there is a disco in the village hall and tomorrow is the beer festival and fête. On Sunday, there is coffee, lunch and tea in the church rooms. Throughout, there is an exhibition of wedding dresses and accompanying
paraphernalia. I had said I would do a flower arrangement for the font and help set up the exhibition.

I went early to do the flowers, intending to pop home for a Nice Cup of Tea. I fed Tilly a bit early, to her great pleasure. I mean, food – it’s what it’s all about, really, isn’t it?

I had hardly started when several people came in, asking if it was all right to look round the church. I welcomed them and we chatted – one of them had been evacuated from London to here at the age of four, his family then moved to Kings Lynn and he was revisiting old haunts. After they left, I did my flowers … but then helpers started arriving early, and we all mucked in.

A couple of hours later, I received a phone call from the Sage. He was going out, but wanted me to know that he had fed Tilly. “But I fed Tilly” I replied. “Oh. She looked very thin and hungry and I was sure she hadn’t been fed…”

She doesn’t look so thin now. She does, however, look pretty pleased with herself.

This is the anti-bullying charity that the profits from ‘Lies’ (Tuesday’s post) is going to.

I wasn’t enthusiastic when the head of English told us that, last year, the Year 9 intake had been put in mixed-ability groups. I had reckoned that it was a big improvement when the totally comprehensive, treat ’em all alike regardless of intelligence or behaviour ideas had been relaxed, and schools had been able to put pupils into sets according to ability. However, what she said made sense and has made me look at the question from a different perspective.

The least able children, who would previously have been put in sets 4 & 5, were no longer labelled (in their own eyes) as ‘thick’. They no longer had low expectations of themselves and, she said, instead of regularly being marked at E or F, were handing in C and D grade work. It was a startling change.

The groupings were not done randomly, but they were (taking information from the Middle School) grouped according to aptitude, using these categories. Of course, we all use elements of all of them, but some people have strong preferences one way or another. Many, though not all, of the children who had previously not engaged with their schoolwork, were told they were kinaesthetic learners and that the lessons would be geared towards their most effective learnng style, with strategies worked out to help them with other learning methods. This encouragement transformed them. No longer were they bewildered by not understanding something their classmates picked up in a few minutes – there was a reason, and it wasn’t their fault. It would be worth putting in the effort and they need no longer be easily satisfied with mediocrity. A teaching assistant (a qualified English teacher, recently retired – what luck!) took small groups of slower pupils to help with their Shakespeare and they were able to engage with literature in a way they hadn’t managed before.

Some of the teachers found the kinaesthetic groups quite hard – it was going against their own inclinations – but they all remained enthusiastic, because it was so evidently working. It was necessary to have some extension activities for the quicker pupils – these were not just to fill in the time, but were geared to the syllabus and both interesting and useful, and were available for pupils to take and complete when they had finished the initial assignment. The lesson objectives, which are explained at the start of the lesson, were that “all of you will learn ***. Most of you will learn ****. Some of you will learn *****.”

The department also decided to follow a new syllabus last year. Each teacher researched a different one and did an evaluation, so that it could be agreed by all which was the best. The current one is much less prescriptive and gives each teacher more scope to follow his or her own preferences and those of the class being taught.

You may wonder, as I did, how the brighter children got on. Were they held back or given time to become bored? Apparently not, it was said. The more studious ones tended to be in the auditory or visual groups, for one thing, and because the teachers were so enthused, this was transmitted to the students. There was no slacking in their effort or results. The smartest 20 pupils were put in a class of their own and will be given the opportunity to take their English GCSE a year early and then take English Literature and Media Studies GCSE in Year 11, so enabling them to take two further GCSEs of their choice.

After she had left, we talked about it – the other people present were all teachers, two of them science staff at the school. They were not sure if it would work in all subjects – “You have to have a decent level of intelligence to access Physics”. We wonder if the effect will come across in the SATs that these pupils sat in May.

I noticed one of them had a booklet about learning Latin and asked him about it. It’s an online course, apparently, for schools that don’t have a Latin teacher. I brightened. I love Latin, but I’ve forgotten most of it. He said that if they offer it at GCSE, maybe I should go back to school…

– and appreciated you lovely people all the more

48%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?
I was relieved not to get a higher score

you wouldn’t, I suppose, consider glancing here? – http://www.myspace.com/bloodonthemind – I ask because young Jonathan and James are friends of mine. Jonathan and his father are good farmers, who take care of their dairy herd and give their sweetest-natured dry cows a summer holiday on our field. J can, furthermore, sing. He is the pride of Yagnub Choral Society.

Don’t feel obliged to download, but profits are going to an anti-bullying charity.