"Later I can take the children to watch the farmer cut barley!" says the Bearded One, with all the pride of one who has just discovered the secret of cold fusion.
"Oh, can they go in the combine harvester?" says the CFO politely, trying to generate a particle of enthusiasm.
"No" says my father. They can stand at the side of the field and watch".
In any event he sloped off, shifty eyed, mid morning and has not been seen since. I imagine he is sitting in some sepulchrally dark, silent pub with a pint and the paper. Presumably the great barley extravaganza is off.
With such a dazzling programme of entertainment laid out for us, we have made a pygmy jerboa for the fete instead. The CFO insisted on calling it Djerba, or Jerboam, or Gerbera or even, memorably, Jellaba, but had some excellent ideas for construction. The body is clematis blossom. Yeah, it's probably not edible but it's ALL JERBOA ALL THE TIME. Look:
Its feet are yellow courgette, its beak lemon peel (does it have a beak? I can't even access sodding You Tube to check. Bloody country) and its legs, uh, twigs. Its eyes are not currants but I could totally have lied to you and pretended they were and you would never have been any the wiser. What? It's a good jerboa, OKAY?
Flushed with the success of the Jerboa I mistakenly attempted Helena's' challenge of making a dung beetle. It is atrocious, but I include it anyway.
There is something about the way it is sort of splayed, belly flopping over its dung ball that is frankly unseemly, isn't there? Moreover, having finally looked at a picture of a dung beetle I realise it is pushing its ball of poo the wrong way round, I am a total vegetable beetle loser. Sorry, Helena.
I have to go now before someone falls into a slurry pit or something. Tomorrow, Nathan willing, I will be returning to sweet, sweet Belgium.