Tattie picking

When I was a kid tattie picking was one of the three main ways of earning money for kids. In June/July you could sometimes get cash helping with the hay if a storm was coming and they wanted to rush to get it in before it rained. In August there was grouse beating* and in October half term there was potato picking.

So, in October in Northumberland it is cold and dark. I would get up at 6am and walk two miles through the dark (don't worry I'm not going off into that sketch) and spend the whole day pulling freezing cold potatoes out of wet and freezing cold ground for five pounds and, if I was lucky, a cup of stewed tea and a scone. My folks got a free bag of spuds as part of the deal too.

Today's tattie picking was a little different. In 40 degree temperatures, dressed in a vest, skirt and flip flops, I picked for 10 minutes before I had to go inside and collapse into a cool beer. Arguably, I should leave them in the ground until cooler times and just buy potatoes. But today Mr B had the (hopefully) last and (definitely) worst in a series of recent migraines. This meant he nearly crashed on the way to the bank (yes, he should have told me so I could drive instead) and then sat in the car with his eyes closed while I did battle with the forces of beaurocracy. Oh, and the force is strong with them. So instead of popping into the greengrocer for potatoes, it seemed best to go straight home to deliver him to cool sheets, drugs and a dark room.

So, today's good news is that Mr B is off to London tomorrow to start a rather exciting project. Of course that makes us all sad that he's going to be away, but will keep the wolf (I mean EDF) from the door for another few months.

Today's not so good news, apart from the crippling migraine and the total incompetence of our bank (who did not seem to have seen US dollars before) was that the largest of these potatoes were totally wrecked by me in perhaps my worst ever roast potatoes. Yes, I know, roast dinner in this heat is a bit daft. Tune in tomorrow for dumpling stew and spotted dick.

*Technically there was also pheasant beating, but we were banned from that on the basis that my mam thought it was fairly likely that we would be shot as that happens in a wood rather than on open fells - where we at least had a chance to duck.