They sat high in the branches like Christmas baubles. Thirty-five turkeys with the sun full on them.
I counted as they looked back at me aflame with light. What on earth were they gobbling about in that tall tree top, I wondered (you try interpreting a turkey. It’s not easy).
‘Cauliflowers don’t fly?’ perhaps, or ‘Have you got nits?’
I would like to point out at this stage that I’m not a cauliflower and I haven’t got nits. Even if I did I wouldn’t mention it in a newspaper article. Nits are personal (would you talk about it if you had them?) and besides, what’s the point in speculating about nits when there are cows to feed, sheep to shepherd, celeriac to harvest and Lord knows what else on a fine afternoon in mid November. And by the way, the turkeys didn’t come down. They spent the whole night in that blooming tree and only returned to earth for breakfast.
Meanwhile Charlie Briggs and Peter Nichols were ploughing and cultivating and drilling winter wheat in Meeres Newland; Edgar Dzerve was lifting beetroot; and Scott Hempsall was cutting cauliflowers, some of which were really quite large and, dare I say it, as big as a turkey, which means they’d have a problem flying long distances and certainly wouldn’t reach Spalding (some six miles away) even with the wind behind them. Then again cauliflowers don’t fly...