“a damage limitation exercise.”

 Wednesday 24th September 2025

Dad has been in touch with Mr Booth today at some point. That doesn’t sound too promising, does it?! Mr Booth, for the uninitiated, is something of an eccentric agronomist who advises several farms around here, including ours. He’s very much the image of a nutty professor—hair sticking out in all directions except for the fringe which never seem to get ruffled, glasses forever sliding down his nose, and a habit of talking as if the crops themselves are whispering in his ear. Brilliant in his field, but more than a little alarming behind the wheel.

Apparently, he’s had what he insists on calling “a damage limitation exercise.” To everyone else it was more like a brush with catastrophe. He was driving down the road when, on rounding a bend (probably on two wheels), he came upon a narrow bridge just as a car was coming the other way. Instead of slowing down like a normal person, he veered down the bank beside the bridge, bounced across the river—which luckily was more a shallow trickle than a torrent—and only came to grief when the opposite bank defeated him.

A local farmer had to tow him out, and although the front of his truck looked a bit battered, he drove away as though nothing untoward had happened. His passenger, however, had had enough. He refused point-blank to get back in, preferring to walk home while loudly declaring that Mr Booth was a lunatic. Booth’s defence? He explained that momentum was essential to climb the far bank, and since he hadn’t made it, it only proved he wasn’t going fast enough. Slowing down had never been an option. I can believe that.

Over dinner, Dad relayed the whole saga with a grin, clearly amused. Mum, however, was far from impressed. She threw Dad one of her “I told you so” looks and said again that he ought to find someone more sensible to advise us. Dad just chuckled and shook his head, saying what he always says—that Booth may be crazy, but he’s the best agronomist around and worth putting up with. I can see both sides: Mum frets about his antics, but Dad trusts him because, in the end, the fields always thrive under his guidance.

As for me, my own day was rather more peaceful. I was back ploughing, and it’s been one of those warm, golden autumn days where the sun softens everything. My mood has been light and happy, and I’ve enjoyed the time alone to let my thoughts wander as I sang along to the radio. That’s the beauty of being on the tractor—no one can hear you, so you can sing as loudly and badly as you like.

Meanwhile, Dad has been sowing seeds with his new tractor, and he could hardly stop talking about how well it’s working. He looked downright pleased with himself at dinner. Mum rolled her eyes at the machinery talk, muttering that I’d do better to learn a new recipe or sit with her knitting. I can’t help but find it all amusing. Dad and his tractors, Mum and her homemaking—different worlds, yet both dear to me. And me, somewhere between them, I feel lucky to belong to both.