I've led a sheltered life

I'm 60 years old and I've had quite an exciting life: an interesting job, a bit of travel and some great holidays, but on Saturday I realised that in comparison to some people, ordinary people like me, my life has been very straightforward.

Most significantly, I've been in control of it, able to do what I want to do, work where I want to work ... I haven't always made the best decisions, but they were my decisions, freely made.

On Saturday, Margaret and I went across the Leicester to have dinner with Inna's parents, Michael and Marina and two of their Russian friends, Vladimir and Ellanora (I may have got those names slightly wrong).

It was a really nice evening, exceptionally good company and fascinating to hear their stories. They would all have been born in Stalin's Russia, all grown up under Nikita Khrushchev and Leonid Brezhnev - names I would have known only from the news.

I watched the Cold War from a spectator seat in the dress circle, they lived in the grip of communism, they experienced it first hand.

We talked about a lot of things, it was interesting that all of them (except Ellanor, who was a concert pianist) had been sent to work on collective farms during the summer. This wasn't a volunteer job, some extra work to earn a little bonus, you were told to go and you went. Milking cows, building water towers, digging potatoes, they'd done it all.

Vladimir had been sent to Kazakhstan, which was then part of the USSR and is a country the size of Western Europe. He said that all you could see in every direction was the horizon. He and his fellow "volunteers" were dropped off with a sack of buckwheat and the nearest water supply was 40km away.

The local population were Kipchaks, but once they’d gone out on a scouting mission to try to find alcohol. Most villages were small collections of mud huts (wattle and daub) and were very drab, but they'd come across one village where there were flowers everywhere and blonde girls - and everyone was speaking German.

During the reign of Catherine the Great a lot of Germans had been encouraged to emigrate to Russia; then during the Second World War, Stalin had rounded them up and exiled them to Kazakhstan. many had died en route, but these were some survivors.

Rules for working an allotment 1 - rotavator etiquette

Every allotment holder (after a day's digging) will start dreaming about owning a rotavator.

Where I live, everyone who works an allotment has one (or has a friend who will lend them one) and rotavators are a source of constant interest, amusement (schadenfreude), envy and jealousy.

Here are the basic rules relating to rotavator etiquette:

This chap is way too smartly dressed and his
rotavator looks a bit girly as well!

1. Once you have a rotavator (and you will get one – they are sine qua non) it is important never to admit any shortcomings. If you have a useless rotavator, or have made an unwise buy, you will be the laughing stock of the allotments. See rule 2 for further information:

2. If you buy a new rotavator, you'll be considered a bit of a flash git. Now some people don't mind being considered a flash git (in which case they should buy the biggest. most expensive one they can find), but if you want to be "one of the lads" then the only way to redeem yourself is for the new machine to break down or not do a proper job and for you to perform an act of abject contrition in front of your fellow allotment holders, confessing you made an unwise buy and have wasted hundreds of pounds. This will not restore your reputation, but people will talk to you out of sympathy. The only other course of action is to keep the new machine hidden and use it only at night.

3. Always have a rotavator that rates high in the pecking order. What they admire in Thorney is a good, solid piece of metal; if it doesn't need two people to lift it into your car then it probably isn't up to the job. If you need to buy a bigger car to carry your rotavator, so much the better. It should be a beast, barely tamed, but capable of chewing up solid clay and producing a fine tilth in one pass. You need to have picked it up for next to nothing - a real bargain. Fulfill these criteria and you will have a rotavator that everyone admires.

The ideal machine - old and heavy. If you bought
it for £50 you're a bloody legend.

4. Never buy a machine from Amazon (or if you do, never admit to it). It's a well-known fact that all machines sold on Amazon are made in China; they also come in bits that you have to assemble yourself, contain no instructions and no tools, require filing or drilling to get the parts to fit and once you've started it, the rotavator will shake itself to pieces after an hour's use. There is a certain kudos in managing to assemble one, getting it running and then declaring it unfit for the task, sending it back and getting a full refund. This is what one allotment holder in Thorney did - he’s now something of a legend.

5. Never brag about your machine – this not only fosters jealousy it also tempts fate. Big it up and I guarantee your gearbox will dump all its oil into your subsoil the next time you use it.

6. Never get it professionally maintained or repaired. A man who cannot fix his own rotavator is barely a man. By the way, it’s fine for a mate to fix it – there’s definite kudos in having a mate who can fix things.

7. Never admit to finding it hard to use or too heavy (see 6). Like owning a big dog, a man must be able to control his rotavator. Asking next door to help you turn it around when you’ve reached the end of your row is infra dig.

8. Never lend your rotavator to anyone else. They may break it, of course, but more likely, they’ll find umpteen faults and tell everyone else on the allotments what a pile of poo it is. The best thing is offer your help (it's a bit temperamental, there’s a knack to keeping it running ...). That way, your allotment neighbour is doubly grateful – once for the loan of the machine and twice for your labour.

9. Never borrow another man’s rotavator (unless you’re related). There’s every chance it will break or you won’t be able to get it started/lift it out of the car.

10. Never tell anyone that you're going to plough your allotment with an antique plough you’ve bought and your two Welsh cobs. An unlikely scenario perhaps, but that’s what one “hippy type” announced to her allotment neighbour in Thorney two years ago and (as you can see) they’re still enjoying the joke.

Also see: We have an allotment

Should Thorney have a wind farm?

There is a major campaign in the village at present. I haven't seen the community so united against a proposal since the council thought it might be a good idea to build a gipsy camp in Thorney.

What has got everyone so angry? It's wind turbines - there's a proposal to build four turbines in French Drove (between Thorney and Crowland) which was approved in February, but what has really got people excited is a proposal to build eight turbines at Gores farm, just to the west of the village.

An opposition group - Thorney Landscape Protection - has been formed and there are posters all around the village. It seems the vast majority are against the plan.

Some of the rhetoric used by the opponents has been somewhat over-egged. The turbines are described as 415ft high monsters and there's a regular comparison between the height of the turbines and the height of the abbey.

These are the key objections (taken from the Thorney Landscape Protection website):

Visual Impact. The Turbines will be oppressive, over-bearing and totally out of scale and architectural character with the current surroundings and the unique Fenland landscape. Shadow Flicker and Reflection will also be unacceptable.

Noise. The Turbines will create noise pollution and vibration to a currently quiet setting, especially with the Village being located on the receiving side of the generally prevailing south westerly wind.

Ecology & Ornithology. The Turbines will be in close proximity and a threat to the Nene Washes 5.5.5.1. and associated local conservation areas -a site of international importance for many very rare, threatened and protected species.

Heritage. The Development and its close proximity to Thorney will have a negative impact on the character and setting of historic listed buildings in and around the Conservation Village. Views will be impacted to and from the internationally important ancient monument of Flag Fen.

Archaeology. The Development site interferes with the Prehistoric Settlement on Gores Farm.

Public Footpaths. The Development will interfere with and have negative impact upon the unspoilt rural footpaths used by many local residents to both the north eastern and southern boundaries of the proposed development.

Shadow Flicker is a phenomenon where the rotating blade of a turbine casts a shadow. When reflected through a narrow opening (eg a window). It’s claimed this can cause headaches and nausea. A government study says it's not a problem and it's hard to see how such an effect could be an issue unless the turbines were very close to a property.

People have complained about noise and vibration from turbines, but we’re not a quiet village – there’s traffic on the bypass, aircraft, lawnmowers, rooks etc. Holly doesn't like low-level noise such as fans, so she'll probably spend her whole time running around the garden barking (oh, she does that now).

The turbines are claimed to be a threat to birds, especially to the RSPB reserve between here and Whittlesey. The RSPB will object to wind farms where they pose a specific threat to birds (especially migrating flocks), but it hasn't objected here. The threat to birds from wind farms is hugely exaggerated.

The development (and others planned) will certainly have an impact on the landscape. Opponents describe the fens as a unique landscape. This isn't true, there are lots of fenland landscapes in the UK (Kent, Lincolnshire and East Yorkshire for example), but it will change the views around the village. I don't mind wind turbines, I think they have a stark beauty, but I'm not sure I want to see them in every direction. However, if you walk around the boundaries of the village, you can see turbines to the south and east already. There are also electricity pylons everywhere and no-one seems to complain about those.

The opponents are playing the archaeology card as well. There are already turbines (at Whittlesey) clearly visible from Flag Fen so that doesn't really cut any ice. I don't know about prehistoric settlements at Gores Farm, but archaeology rarely stops development. Indeed, development generally allows archaeologists the money and access to dig and investigate sites.

I had to laugh when they talk about unspoiled rural footpaths used by many local residents. The footpath to the south of Gores Farm runs from Whittlesey Road (by Thorney Dyke) to Willow Hall. I’ve never seen anyone on that path, it’s impossible to reach on foot without walking three miles along Whittlesey Road and it brings you out halfway down Willow Hall (with the route back along roads). It’s hardly a pleasant walk. I walk Toneham regularly and rarely see anyone using the footpath. It’s so quiet that swans are now nesting on the Thorney side of the dyke (right next to the path).

It would be nice if we didn’t have to have wind turbines, but we all use electricity (and 15% of our power is now generated from wind). Would people prefer a coal-fired power station or a nuclear power station next to the village? Would people stop using electricity?

I don’t mind that people are against the proposal, but I wish that they’d use sensible arguments and why are they against it? Misinformation? Fear over damage to their house prices? Or is it just a case of “not in my back yard?”

Official website: http://www.goreswindfarm.co.uk/

Opposition group: http://thorneylandscapeprotection.wordpress.com/

Having a bad hair day ...

The classic Eric Longworth cut,
with tuft controlled by Fairy soap

What should I do with my hair? It's been something of a problem all my life.

When I was very small, I used to scream and cry when I was taken to the barber for a haircut (Max did the same when he was little). I remember my mum trying to appease me with an ice-lolly (without success) and, finally, I think she was told not to bring me any more.

There was a switch to a new barber - Eric Longworth, whose shop used to be at Lostock Gralam crossroads (later opposite the church). There was a lot of positive therapy from my mother before the first visit to Longworth's and much talking up of how wonderful it was. Eric Longworth was a young man, he had a smooth, tanned face, Brylcreemed hair; he was a smooth talker in the best barber mould and the interesting Eric Longworth fact was that he played water polo - something of an exotic sport.

Looking back, I wonder if my mum fancied Eric Longworth?

My tonsurephobia (fear of haircuts) must have been deep-seated. I think it related to having my ear stabbed with scissors and told to sit still by the old barber, who sat you in a wooden chair. Eric Longworth had modern, adjustable chairs that went up and down; he also had electric clippers that didn't stab your ears. I remember my first visit quite clearly. I'd been told I had to be good, be a big boy and not make a fuss. Eric had the same name as me (which was interesting - apart from my dad, I didn't know any other Erics) and he also took a lot of time to show me things and make the visit a good experience. It was an investment well made - my relationship with him lasted from being about four years old until I moved to Warrington at the age of 21.

Short to avoid helmet hair, but it
needs too much product

It was at Eric Longworth's however, that I first experienced that difficult barber question: how would you like it? I didn't know back then and I still don't know now.

The stock answer was "short back and sides please", but that always left me slightly dissatisfied. Eric told my mother that I had a bit of hair at the front which grew in the wrong direction (Sam also had a tuft, so it's clearly genetic). He told her it would be a problem if it wasn't trained, so I had a variety of products applied to keep it where it should be. There was Dr Page-Barker's lotion (which also prevented dandruff and set into a crisp crust), Brylcreem (this was the 1950s) and Fairy soap (my mum's stand-by solution).

In the kitchen, we used to always have a big bar of green Fairy soap. It was used for handwashing and also for scrubbing floors, surfaces, etc. Stains on clothing would be rubbed with Fairy before going into the washing machine. If my hair was standing up in the morning before school, mum used to rub the wet bottom of the soap on my fringe and comb it through. That set with an even firmer crust than Dr Page-Barkers (although it didn't smell as nice).

I had a short back and sides throughout boyhood, but mum died when I was 11 and from that point my hair was my responsibility (although I still had no idea what I wanted to do with it). Eric Longworth had pictures of handsome male models on his walls to inspire you to do different things, but I never plucked up the courage to say: "I want one like that."

Grammar school imposed a strict hair regime. It wasn't allowed to grow over the ears and sideboards/sideburns couldn't be grown down beyond the point where your ear attached to your head; so, essentially, a short back and sides was the ideal cut.

Longer - too long?

As the Swinging Sixties finally reached Northwich, we pushed the boundaries at school and the old rules were relaxed. My hair grew longer, but not that much longer, and my tuft seemed to have been trained by all those years of product application.

My first 'style' was a skinhead with a razor-cut side parting. This was Neil Tuson's idea and a half-hearted attempt to establish myself in some kind of 'Mod' sub-group, somewhere between the traditional Parka-wearing Mod and  the Skinheads - I really shouldn't have listened to Neil Tuson.

This hair style provoked much comment (most of it negative), my crash helmet didn't fit me properly any more and my girlfriend dumped me. I let my hair grow slowly longer until it was over my ears and collar and quite wavy on the top. I don't know what that style would be called - probably a 'Needs a Haircut' style.

I went out with a trainee hairdresser called Kathy and she said she would cut my hair for me. This seemed like a great idea and it was the first time since my mum died that a woman was in charge of my hair style. It didn't go well - I think Kathy fancied Rod Stewart and had tried to make me in his image, so it was spiky at the top and long at the sides. I hated it, I had it cut at Eric Longworth's the next week and Kathy poured a cup of lukewarm coffee over my head when she saw what I'd done. Then she dumped me.

When I was married and moved to Warrington, Margaret became my chief hair advisor. Margaret is never quite sure how to have her hair, so her advice has been consistent, but never definitive - "you should do something different."

Combed back and tucked behind the ears
- is that a proper haircut?

As my job became more demanding and my family grew, the big challenge was finding time for a haircut. We took to using Les Cole in Whittlesey and it would be a family outing, with Max inheriting my fear of scissors to the extent that we considered cutting his hair ourselves while he was asleep.

Coles are made of sterner stuff than the barber in Lostock and I tried bigger and better bribes than an ice-lolly, so Max's tantrums were soon overcome.

Margaret thought I should have my hair like Hugh Grant and I was made to humiliate myself by asking for a Hugh Grant cut in Coles. It's the only time I've ever asked for a celebrity haircut and it will be the last. I liked it better than my Rod Stewart cut (which I hadn't asked for), but it wasn't me. When I went to work the next week, my CEO, Alan Goode, asked me what I had done with my hair. I told him my wife wanted me to look like Hugh Grant. "Eric," he said, "it looks like you've got a dead cat on your head."

When I hit my 40s and was able to get a motorcycle again, I tried a shorter cut to avoid 'helmet hair' but short hair requires product and product makes the inside of your crash helmet horrid.

Since then, I've worn my hair a bit longer with a side-parting and my barber of choice has become Jason in Whittlesey. When I retired, I resolved to grow it longer, perhaps even have a pony tail, but it's not going well. Margaret has made it her mission to nag me back to the barber and my hair is also getting on my nerves.

I do have a thick head of hair, now quite grey, but I still have no idea what I should do with it.

Bugger!