I'm going into hiding

In seeking to counter all of the above Britons and now Americans have put foxes in charge of the hen house

To trump (verb/slang): to pass wind. Back in the sixties this was a term in regular use among juveniles in the Kirby household following thunderous indiscretions by elderly relatives who came for Christmas.

Now we need to evolve the definition to monumental brain fart. Brexit - ye gods - and now.....

I know, I know. The people have had more than their fill of the deaf establishment, the members-only club of the self-anointed ruling elite, of greed, the mega-rich, the widening gulf. I get all of that.

The glossy, celebrity-obsessed media are culpable too. Radical reaction has been in the air for years. There's only so much anyone can take. But this? It is all getting unbearably noxious and staggeringly bonkers.

In seeking to counter all of the above Britons and now Americans have put foxes in charge of the hen house. And in the case of the Americans, that bushy-tailed fox has made no secret of his temper, dire judgment, sexism, racism and narcissism, who thinks the increasingly alarming consequence of global warming is just “weather”: who, in his dire need to surround himself with good, worldly, measured counsel, is turning to the likes of Sarah Palin.

I can't bear to look, read or listen any more.

The best place for me to hide is in the farm barn. I can distract myself for hours in there. Anyway, now that the olive harvest is finally over I need to clear space for the nets and ladders. Bumbling about in the shadows it is amazing what you can uncover, given that for 16 years it has been a vast repository for things we didn't know what to do with but couldn't face throwing away. As with the ruling elite, a Cathartic clear-out has been hugely appealing for a long time, but I need to stop and think, to weigh the worth of every possession, and consider long and hard before I lob.

I have even found a polar bear, along with assorted other glass and china ornaments that hadn't left their transport box since we arrived in 2001. And I have found the floor. It hasn't seen the light of day for years. But it has vanished again, for good very good reason.

I have been clearing enough space to squeeze in Bella, a 1969 Seat 600D; a cherry red, Barcelona-built, iconic beauty who makes me and everyone who sees her smile. She is not another ornament but will work for her living, being a symbol of our little Mother's Garden olive oil export business (small, round, Catalan, timeless and beautiful). And she is also going to star in a feature film set here in the timeless Priorat. Early in 2017 I will tell you more.

One thing is for sure, we will not be rushing anywhere in Bella. Time, I think, to take things steady.

Who am I? The DNA test results are in and I promised to share. To recap – I was always told that I was predominantly of British origin, with roots stretching from Scotland to Wales and down to the south western toe of the island, to Cornwall and Devon. There was also the probability of an ounce of mainland Europe blood, given my Viking name, and also vague tales of an Iberian ancestor.

Well.... I am stunned and very happy to tell you that my roots are more firmly established on the continent than on the island. I am a European through and through: 52 per cent mainland Europe, spanning most of the western countries including northern Iberia, 30 per cent British and 18 per cent Irish Celt. Specifically, the test revealed that my roots reach as far as into Scandinavia (yep, Viking) and also to Italy and Greece. Collons!

Have a good, wind-free Christmas .

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