FOR the last few months, John has been seeking a hedge cutter. He has chased one or two through private sales and machinery auctions and had no luck. Yesterday he went to another machinery sale. Again no luck, but an entertaining day was had by all. We took Uncle Tom with us. He was 90 years old last year. Fit as a fiddle. Sharp as a button. If there is a cliche to describe a wonderful old fella, he deserves it.

Tom was fascinated by the sale. A good turn out of potential customers. There must be some money slopping around still in farming. Not in our pot, but definitely in someone else's. The farmer selling his agricultural tackle has had a change of direction. He is share farming from now on. No one to take on the farm, and more time for him to have a relaxed time with an income. With the added bonus of a farm sale to help along the pension pot.

Everything up for sale was very tidy and prices were good. Standing beside John was a machinery dealer who John often uses, and who has been looking for a decent hedge cutter for John for the last few months. Four plastic sheep troughs, £70. An old Massey Ferguson 135, £1,400 more than it cost new. A P-reg tractor £22,000. A brush cutter. Too dear for us, and according to the machinery dealer too dear for him. "I wish I could sell a tractor as old as that for that price, and the hedge cutter as well."

Once the item we wanted had gone, Tom lost a bit of interest and asked for the keys to the Land Rover so he could go and have a "bit of a sit-down". John handed over the keys and moved on to follow the auctioneer. Too late we realised that when we had parked the Land Rover, we had noticed that we were in a virtual sea of green Land Rovers. Could Tom tell the difference?

No. He couldn't. By the time John found him he had tried to break into at least two other green, L-reg Land Rovers with no luck. Mind you, he does not look like a TWOCer - taking without owner's consent.

Back home with our geriatric delinquent, there was a message on the phone about two ruddy ducks that had landed on a friend's pond. Ruddy ducks are on the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds hit list. Introduced to this country and continent by mistake, by an eminent ornithologist, they are sullying the bloodline of other ducks by mating with virtually anything with a beak and a pair of webbed feet that quacks. The ducks have been coming to the pond for a few days now, presumably on the ravage. They looked very fine, pale blue beaks and a display style that must be setting all the female mallard hearts in the area thumping.

Tom, John and I sat in the front of the Land Rover watching the tail wagging, beak dipping, and other chat-up routines. "They look a bit fancy," Tom remarked. "I expect all the local drakes are feeling a bit put out with the competition. Where did you say they were from originally?"

"America, I think," John said.

"Ah," Uncle Tom said, "those mallard drakes must feel a bit like we did when the GIs came over during the war, wearing their fancy tailored uniforms and we were all in our khaki standard issue. Do you know what we used to say? They're over dressed. Over sexed. And over here. Bet those mallards feel just the same.'

Updated: 11:06 Thursday, May 30, 2002