Invitations keep cropping up

AS regular readers will know I've never been the type of journalist to leap out of aeroplanes, go scuba diving or any other sort of jumping about.

James Marston

AS regular readers will know I've never been the type of journalist to leap out of aeroplanes, go scuba diving or any other sort of jumping about.

Nevertheless, I have been helping our county's farmers this week - doing my bit on a combine harvester with winter wheat, or at least reporting on it.

As you will see, if you look closely, I wasn't actually driving the big machine, it was worth rather a lot of money to risk that, but I was finding out all about it.

Did you realise it has air conditioning, a radio, and Ipod terminal? - Invaluable tools for the job according to the driver Nick who tells me one of the biggest skills needed is to keep awake through the long hours of harvest.

It can also tell him all sorts of things about the crop like yields and moisture levels and how efficiently he is cutting the crop - the view's quite good too.

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Naturally it's not all work with me and to be honest I have been almost wiped out by almost never-ending social whirl that I have found myself on just recently.

If you're anything like me - self-obsessed, thinning hair and a soupcon heavy - it is rather difficult to say no to invites from one side of the county to the other - not that I'd ever want to decline anything in case I don't get asked again.

For example dining out this weekend with what I call my Bury St Edmunds friends Mark and Liz - there the ones who married recently so of course there were pictures to look at - was followed by an alfresco luncheon the next day at my Felixstowe friends Brenda and Philip - Pimms because I was driving and its not strong really is it, followed by a four course repast which included a smoked salmon starter, a tasty chicken dish, home grown vegetables, with couscous and salad, strawberry tart and cheese.

By the time I'd worked my way through that lot I almost rolled home.

As Philip said to me: “It's all eating out with you isn't it James?” a comment which made me realise I hadn't cooked anything in my small galley kitchen with views of next door's rabbit since I made a bowl of Weetabix four nights ago after a trip to the theatre.

So by Saturday night I was keen to have a quiet night in and enjoy my sea views (distant) and Come Dine With Me followed by my latest book on the life of Elizabeth I and something eggy on toast.

Of course by 8pm I was totally bored with Elizabeth Tudor - well she died in the end - and busied myself with housework which I'd left rather too long after discovering someone who will remain nameless had written “dust me” with a finger on my upright piano.

Anyway a quiet night in leaves a lot to be desired don't you think?

CAN you believe Woodstock was 40 years ago?

Well, obviously at my tender age of all-the-threes 33, I can't remember anything about it.

But this week I have written about it.

It was this huge event in New York state in the USA of America and it was all about free love, music and drugs.

The more I researched the more it sounded totally and utterly ghastly. I must say queuing for hours in traffic then sleeping in the open with thousands of other people to watch some hippies plucking guitars sounds mildly less preferable to Chinese water torture.

Each to his own I suppose.

Good news this week.

Peter Andre has said he is going to say no more about his very public and what appears to be acrimonious split from Mrs Andre - that large bosomed Katie Price.

Thank goodness - I thought he'd never shut up about it.

Apparently Peter has attempted to draw a line under his messy, saying he had "said everything he had to say" on the matter and that “I've finally accepted our marriage is over. I've shed my last tear.”

Call me a cynical hack but I suspect our hopes that we have heard the last from him might be short-lived.

Have you been to Bury St Edmunds recently?

I found myself in the town centre with my sister Claire, who enjoys murder mysteries and would like to marry a farmer, the other Saturday for a little light shopping.

I was saddened to discover half the shops had shut in the town centre.

My sister Claire, a much more regular shopper than I, tells me they have all moved into that monstrosity they call The Arc leaving the centre bereft.

What a mess and what a shame.

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