If you can't tell by the writing style, its me, Tom.
It was the Jersey Young Farmers Club breezing competition (shallow ploughing for those of you who aren't aware). This involved lots of old tractors with lots of old ploughs driving slowly around a field whilst people (probably almost bored half to death by the ~1mph speed) watched on, silently judging everyone taking part. I think I might have judged the most, but because it was silent, I can't be sure.
I could go into technical detail about quality of finish, straightness of first furrow and how its difficult to achieve a nice plot without a depth wheel and a set of discs, but then the number of readers of this blog would almost certainly dwindle to a point where my mother (and father) would be quite upset. This wouldn't be the first time I have ruined something of theirs - I apparently put the TV remote in the bin back in 1989.
There were 9 entrants, Jack came 1st and Becky came 5th, which was even more impressive considering she had only learnt to drive a tractor yesterday and therefore hadn't ever ploughed before.
We were still discussing ploughing round the dinner table at 6pm. Mum was 'thrilled' by this, and after 15 minutes of bottling up her feelings (I assume) she blurted out that she wasn't in attendance at todays events because she had had enough of breezing for one lifetime. Puzzled looks around the table...what was she talking about? How could anyone have such a hatred towards ploughing?
It turns out that she was forced to return early from her honeymoon because dad needed to practice his breezing. He obviously had his priorities right as he won the competition. This decision gave him something that cherished memories could never provide - his name engraved on a trophy.
Whenever you've got a choice, you should usually do the thing that gives you a better story to tell. That's why I never wear underwear. (That last bit is a joke by the way, although thinking about it, it would save on washing and purchasing of clothes...)
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