Working Girl

After a rather extended Christmas break and a bout of blogger’s block, I’m back, albeit a bit reluctantly. The problem is that my cunning plan to alert the publishing world to my writing prowess via my blog doesn’t seem to be working.

According to my tracking statistics, I have garnered a total following of just over 100 visitors since starting the Bad Farmer’s Wife in September (2009), which – don’t get me wrong – I am very grateful for, but clearly it’s not quite the volume of traffic that’s going to have Bloomsbury beating a path to my door...

Since the dawn of 2010 then, it’s fair to say that my motivation has been pretty poor. And until last week, I’ve had very little to blog about apart from the tiresome weather. What happened last week? It all started when the Farmer got a call from the police asking if we were landlords of a flat in town.

About three years ago, we bought a one bedroom flat in a fairly smart neighbourhood as a rental investment. It was one of about a dozen in a converted Victorian hospital and until last November, had been successfully rented to the same quiet living tenant. Sadly he left, so the flat was re-advertised in the local paper.

Being unfeasibly paranoid about showing the flat on my own to potential axe murderers, the Farmer did a couple of viewings and let the property within a matter of days to a bubbly Brummie girl who told him she was setting up a Fake Bake franchise. She gave him two letters of reference and paid the deposit and one month’s rent – in cash. The subsequent month was also paid in cash.

I immediately thought she’d done a runner on hearing the news of the police phone call. ‘It’s worse,’ the Farmer said grimly. Worse? I repeated. She can't pay the rent? I groaned. ‘No, the rent’s all paid up,’ he said, ‘because the flat’s being run by a ring of prostitutes!’

He went on to explain that after a tip off from one of the neighbours, the police had done a stake out of the property: the girls worked in 2 week cycles leaving the key under the bin for the next girl. However, they couldn’t prosecute them – allegedly they were doing nothing wrong (tell that to the neighbours!) – it was the pimp they were after; in most cases, usually the landlord! But after interviewing the Farmer, they quickly ruled this out. ‘A spot of farm diversification,’ the Farmer joked.

We were, as you'd expect, completely gobsmacked – our lovely little flat, a brothel! Worse still, I had to go round and clear out their belongings, left behind in their hurry to leave. Armed with rubber gloves and bin bags, I found a colourful selection of eye-popping underwear, bottles of baby oil, value packs of BIC razors and lots of air freshener... Fortunately, there was nothing more sordid than this.

Sitting down to dinner that night, the Farmer pointed out that while the situation was not ideal, at least they had paid the rent before they were busted. True, I agreed, we may be suspected pimps but at least we're not out of pocket.

Twighlight Zone

Today, we have nearly two feet of snow here on the farm and it’s still falling. Normally I adore the snow and although it’s chocolate-box-pretty outside, I’m not loving it quite as much as usual because some of my family are trying to get home for Christmas and travelling conditions are treacherous.

As the snow tumbled down yesterday, I couldn’t help but feel guilty that the farmer and I were inside with the fire on watching fantastical festive film Inkheart while my poor sister- and brother-in-law were stuck at Gatwick Airport with our 18 month-old niece for the second day running...

Thankfully, they eventually got a flight into Edinburgh, but last night I was still unsettled. I found myself familiarly frustrated by our afternoon viewing of Inkheart, wondering why I hadn’t come up with such an enchanting tale of myth and magic myself! I always feel this way after watching a captivating fantasy film – clearly I’m young at heart! - as this is the kind of book I would love to write.

Take the Twighlight series by Stephanie Meyer. I first heard of Meyer on a flight from Geneva to Heathrow earlier this year. I was suffering a terrible bout of travel sickness (Farmer in Shining Armour) and had my head in a paper bag for most of the journey, but miraculously still managed to lug into the conversation the two women in my row were having. They had discovered a mutual love of the author of a book one of them was reading.

‘I’ve just finished the second one, it was fantastic,’ the woman next to me enthused. ‘This one’s even better, she’s such an amazing writer,’ agreed the woman next to the window. Before another wave of nausea struck, I swivelled my head a fraction to find out what this amazing book was. I observed a striking matt black cover emblazoned with the word Eclipse in scarlet and made a mental note to look it up on Amazon when I got home.

When I did, I was slightly taken aback. Like me, these women were in their early 30s and I was bemused to learn that they were fans of teen fantasy novels about vampires; until, that is, I watched the movie adaptation of first book Twighlight a fortnight ago. It was fabulous! And tonight – weather permitting – I'm off to see New Moon, the second in the series. Then I shall start Eclipse, book 3.

Twighlight reminds me of a modern day version of 80s classic The Lost Boys, while my friend Morn compares it to Romeo and Juliette. Either way, Meyer’s clearly hit on a winning formula – love, high school angst, blood sucking vampires. If only I'd thought of it first...

Crazy about Kitzbuhel

For anyone who noticed I was away, I’m back! Last week, I was in Austria, visiting the beguiling Tyrolean City of Kitzbuhel. I was sent there for work – it’s a hard life – to experience the enchanting medieval old town with its spectacular architecture, hearty mountain cuisine and most of all, its stunning natural landscape and invigorating alpine activities.

Yes, you read that correctly, I was sent to experience invigorating alpine activities (Fitness Drive), though not skiing (we arrived ahead of the snow), but rather Kitzbuhel’s extensive hiking trails. Happily, the farmer was able to take a few days off to join me on my trip, which was just as well; at least one of us was able to make it up the mountain...

On the first day, we met with our effervescent walking guide, Engelbert, who looked at my washing-machine-white trainers briefly before shrugging his shoulders. He announced cheerily that we were going snow shoeing, and to be frank, my inappropriate footwear was the least of my worries. The news that we were about to embark upon a 1000m ascent with a group of 8 seasoned walkers had started to give me mild heart palpatations.

It was either the adrenalin or more likely the fear of losing face in front of our significantly older and considerably fitter walking companions, but I made it to the hut 7/8 of the way up the mountain. However, my delight at having made it this far was somewhat diminished by the prospect of the horrifyingly steep last 1/8 – the summit.

Luckily, the decision as to whether or not I should continue was taken out of my hands when Engelbert took my pulse and told me to rest at the hut! Not wanting to second guess our expert, I sat on a bench in the sun, taking in the endless blue skies and panoramic vista, while the others went to the top.

Not long after, a few of the group returned, the ascent clearly too challenging for them (lightweights!), proclaiming that my husband was practically running to the top – ‘he’s like a mountain goat!’ the estate agent from Munich announced (ironically, the chamois, or young mountain goat, is Kitzbuhel’s logo). Sure enough, less than 40 minutes later the farmer was back down – Engelbert had said it would take them an hour!

After a late lunch of local speciality ‘Grostl’ – diced potatoes, bacon and onions pan-fried with cumin and topped with a deliciously gooey fried egg – and several songs from the restaurant’s legendary proprietor, Rosi, we finally returned to Kitzbuhel’s magical fairy lit old town and our accommodation, the historic and utterly charming Hotel Zur Tenne.

The rest of our whirlwind Tyrolean trip involved a 4 hour valley hike, an open air concert by the Five Tenors at the top of the world famous Hahnenkamm, a visit to the region’s latest 5 star resort complete with golf course, amazing Aveda spa and private Fondue Room (sadly, we were only being shown around), and a guided tour of the city.

Fresh air, fairytale setting, first class hotels, fabulous hospitality, unforgettable hiking (!) and very firm massages; Kitzbuhel, me and my mountain goat will definitely be back.

Chilli up North...

In between my many trips to Elgin over the past seven days (Cashmere Queen), I have actually managed to get ahead with my Christmas cooking. And by this I mean stocking up the deep freeze and making a few edible gifts, not, as you might expect, that I’m preparing for Christmas Dinner – so far I have successfully avoided hosting Christmas for my enormous family, although if Mum’s not-so-subtle hints are anything to go by, my time is nearly up...

Inspired by the festive frost up North on Monday and feeling guilty about the glut of root veggies from last week’s box, I set about making soup – punchnep (creamed turnip and potato), parsnip and apple, and a vegetable broth – as well as a batch of Nigella’s sweetcorn relish and two batches of chilli jam. I also received an unexpected delivery of Auntie Ruth’s homemade mincemeat, so am endeavouring to make my very first mincemeat pies to add to my bounty.

‘Nigella of the North’ – aka my friend Jill – introduced me to chilli jam last year and I was quickly converted. Despite my difficulties with preserving, this fiery sweet concoction made with jam sugar is virtually foolproof and fantastically versatile. As well as a condiment to cold cuts or cheese, I use it in stir fries, Bolognese or any tomato-based dish in need of a tangy kick, and it’s great smeared on a joint of pork near the end of roasting to produce sticky chilli crackling! This love affair with chilli jam is why I decided to make double quantity this year.

Nigella's Christmas open on the counter, I deseeded and chopped the regular red peppers, throwing them in the processor, then set to work on the 20 or so hot red chillies. I contemplated putting on rubber gloves, before deciding it was probably unnecessary – I didn’t need them last year.

However, as I waited for my second batch to come to Nigella’s recommended ‘rollicking boil’, I noticed a definite stinging in the pads of my left thumb and forefinger. I washed my hands but found myself wincing at the hot water. Drying them off, my thumb and finger started to burn. I ran them under the cold tap for a minute or two – still burning.

It was irritating but I carried on potting and labelling my scarlet flecked jam, pleased with my productivity. But the second I stopped, I was aware of the unbearable burning again. I may as well have pressed my digits straight onto the hot plate they were stinging so much.

So with my work done for the day, I spent the rest of the evening alternating between pinching a bag of frozen rump steaks between a very tender thumb and forefinger, and slathering them with aloe vera gel... Merry Christmas!

Cashmere Queen

The end of November holds a special place in the hearts of me and my Highland girlfriends and no, this isn’t some sort of patriotic salute to St Andrew’s Day or the culmination of the costly Homecoming Scotland celebrations. The sole reason for our unstinting affection for this time of year is down to one thing and one thing only: the annual warehouse sale of world famous cashmere house Johnstons of Elgin!

Every year, this genuine clearance sale sends hundreds of women in the north of Scotland quite giddy at the prospect of cut price cashmere – yours truly included. Held for 8 days only in an enormous marquee behind the woollen mill, spellbound customers sift fastidiously through the rails and tables groaning with the glorious goods, black bin liners at the ready for their lush loot.

And what loot! Indulgent throws are half price at £140, fabulous tailored coats and luxurious cashmere lounge pants go for £120, velvet-soft sweaters for £60, silky-smooth scarves for £35 and cosy gloves a mere tenner. There’s a host of fine woollens too, from dapper tweed shooting jackets to lovely lamb’s wool rugs.

On Friday, I was on a mission to find plus-4s for the farmer, an early Christmas present for an annual shoot he attends in the Borders. Elbowing my way through the throng, I headed straight for the tweeds, found one pair in his size, double checked the measurements with a measuring tape (seasoned shopper, me!) and stuffed them happily into my bin liner before heading for the rugs and scarves.

Yet in spite of my due diligence, the plus-4s were a tad small for the farmer; all the more disappointing since it’s a 100-mile round trip to Elgin from the farm...

Anxious to exchange the trousers before they sold out, I trundled back through again yesterday with my sisters, Mum and Gran. The slight flaw in my plan was that Johnstons don’t do exchanges until the 5th day of the sale... However, I managed to convince the security man that I genuinely couldn’t come back next week so really had to do the exchange yesterday.

He eventually conceded I could swap the trousers – a like-for-like exchange – only for me to find that there were no plus-4s left in the size I needed. Explaining my predicament, Mr Security sighed loudly and said he supposed I could exchange them for something of equal value.

Sifting through the tables, I found a beautiful cream lamb’s wool throw with navy stripes and fringing – perfect! The exchange was done and I left happy.

Last night, showing off the throw to the farmer, spreading it out fully for the first time, I noticed half the fringing was missing along one side - disaster! So unbelievably, it looks like I’m going to have to make a third trip through to exchange my exchange.

Naturally, this is most inconvenient not to mention costly – my fuel consumption will soon cancel out any cashmere savings – but more pressingly, what am I meant to say to Mr Security? I said I was going to be out of the country this week. I may have to go in disguise...

Sheepish...!

Needless to say, the running (Fitness Drive) has fallen by the wayside, particularly with the recent atrocious weather. Being particularly exposed here at the farm, we have been hit hard by gale force winds and torrents of icy rain. Of course when I say ‘we’, I am actually watching the squally weather from inside with the fire on. It’s the poor farmer who’s out there working in it.

I still take the dogs out for their morning walk, though this is an increasingly brief event on account of Molly’s arthritic knees. We normally go up the track for five minutes then back by the field occupied by the sheep being wintered here from my father-in-law's farm, for a bit of variation.

Yesterday was particularly soggy and cold here, and when the farmer came in at lunchtime, I asked him how his morning had been. ‘Not great,’ he replied, peeling his sodden outdoor gear off, ‘we had to move the sheep in this pouring rain.’

‘Why were you moving the sheep?’ I asked, genuinely confused. I may not pay much attention to farm business, but I’m sure they had just gone into that field last week. ‘They got out, somehow,’ he explained, settling himself at the table for lunch. Oh...

Bringing our mugs of tea to the table – Builder’s for the farmer, Darjeeling for me – I looked at him and suggested innocently that they must have pushed the gates open, they weren't very secure after all.

He studied me for a split-second – ‘It was you! You left the gate open!’ he accused. ‘I didn’t,’ I protested, ‘I tied the wire back round the gates, the sheep must have barged through, or the wind blew them open.’ But he wasn’t buying any of it, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

It was true, I had re-tied the wire that secured the gates...I just hadn’t managed to twist it twice, the way the farmer does. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling bad but unable to fully shoulder the blame, ‘you have to admit though, those gates should bolt shut – why don’t they meet in the middle again?’

‘Don’t blame the gates,’ he said, laughing, ‘you let the sheep out!’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I pointed out. ‘I would hope not,’ he said, adding, ‘then you really would be a bad farmer’s wife.’ Harsh. Very harsh!

Fitness Drive...

After another weekend snuggled up watching the lithe, oddly fatless bodies of the Strictly Come Dancing professionals followed by The X Factor’s enviably polished and toned Danni Minogue, I decided I could no longer sit on the sofa and moan about my expanding waistline while doing nothing about it.

Apart from the lack of exercise, my main problem is that I love my food.

Gone are my single days of surviving on a diet of Cosmopolitans and brown basmati with steamed broccoli because since marrying, I feel I’m now legitimately allowed to eat a proper dinner every night – spaghetti carbonara; roast pork and apple sauce; braised lamb shanks and roasted pepper cous cous; homemade fish and chips; chicken, butterbean and pea risotto; sausage and mustard casserole with creamy mash etc etc – as I can hardly expect the farmer to eat brown rice and broccoli after a hard day’s work on the farm, can I?

However, since marrying I have also gained an average of 3lbs a year... So yesterday, I dug out my jogging bottoms, donned my trainers (and several layers) before selecting an appropriately motivating playlist on my iPod. I would run round the track encircling the farm – something that used to take a manageable 15 minutes pre-wedding – I decided sensibly, not wanting to do too much after doing so little for 5 years.

And I started off really rather well, running at a respectable pace past the field full of sheep wintered here from my father-in-law’s farm, on past the croft house and along the line of modern bungalows. Despite a slight stitch in my side, I was especially determined not to stop in front of these houses, being the abodes of the house objectors (Bonfire of the Vanities) and even found the energy to belt out the chorus of the track I was listening to: ‘It’s not fair and I think you’re really mean, I think you’re really mean, I think you’re really mean...’

Since it wasn’t yet 4pm, there probably wasn’t anyone home to hear my tuneless Lily Allen lyrics but it helped me push on through. Yet by the corner, just over half way round, I was forced to slow to a walk, the searing pain in my side not abating until I was almost back home. Still, it was a start, I thought, vowing to make this my new afternoon ritual.

Today, I can hardly walk.

So I’ve decided to give myself a day off and see how I feel tomorrow. Venison steaks with potatoes dauphinoise for tea tonight, followed by a bit of Waterloo Road and Spooks, I think.