I was born on Northern Outhouse Farm which is in the Leak District. It was a proper farm with cows and sheep and tractors; I used to love tractors, but now I’m an ex-tractor fan. It was a well run farm; it wasn’t the cleanest, but it didn’t have rats in the kitchen. I loved my short time up there with my family. I was the last to be relocated following the supermarket milk price wars which were allegedly caused by false reports of WMDs: ways of milk deduction. We played in the many fields, looking down at the former industrial towns which thrived pre-thatcher and now, with EU money, were regenerating quicker than The Doctor. The lambs would leap about with joy besides the remaining headgerows enjoying the English summer; hedgerows love the English summer. The cows were happy too and so was the farmer; his many machines merrily milking and, unbelievable as it seems, he could sell the milk on for profit. I asked mother what a profit was and she just said to beware of false profits, which apparently is something to do with Tesco and Tosh. She was quite prophetic was my mum, even predicting the unfortunate 2015 Tory election win and the EU referendum by analysing cow pats, a system which has since been adopted by MORI. Back then was a time when people fought each other happily in the corner pubs rather than fighting for bargains in the many cut-price supermarkets which have replaced them. The lambs are silent now and the farm has gone too. The farmer has been forced to take a job on a zero hour contract stacking milk on a local supermarket’s shelves and I hear his wife is selling her wares wherever and whenever she can. I do miss the cows though. Strange that milk is cheaper these days, for now, which some love and some hate. I remember asking mother whether she’d help the farmers by paying more for her milk; mother wouldn’t say yes back then, but I know if I asked her today, ma might.