Call the District Nurse

  Recently there have been a couple of television dramas exploring the lives of doctors and nurses working out in the community and these have reminded me of the numerous stories and anecdotes that my mother would tell of her experiences as a district nurse working along the edge of the Lincolnshire fens in the 1960s and 70s.

Nurse Jessie Temple (formerly Shaw) started her time on district work just when my brother and I had started at primary school. She was approached by a couple of local GPs to see if she would like to return to nursing, a career she had taken up during the Second World War. Before going off to study nursing she had worked on the family farm at East Keal for a time. She had tried out a few other jobs; acting as nanny to a couple of children at Langton Hall, cycling to work at a laundry at Skegness. She had not really enjoyed working on the land and talking to a couple of cousins, who had also chosen to train as a nurses, she found herself lodging with an aunt and uncle in Wisbech whilst she completed her training at the North Cambridgeshire Hospital. After marriage in the early fifties and a gap of 10 or so years she found it quite a challenge to pick up the reins of nursing again. However, she found working in the community was very different from working as one of a team in a hospital ward. Nevertheless, I think she was soon in her stride and remained on the district, in one capacity or another, until she retired in her late sixties.

 The job brought her up against many of the people with whom she had grown up; the farmers and folk who made their living from the land. She was less impressed by wealthy townies who had bought up country cottages only to ‘gut’ them and turn them into characterless weekend retreats. When she started out we didn’t own our own phone so every evening about a quarter to six she would stand in the telephone box which stood about fifty yards along the road waiting for the call telling her who required a visit the following day. It sounds odd but it was about two years before the health authority agreed to install a phone in our house. Oddly enough we were given a 2-party line so every time we needed the phone we had to press a button to take over the line. Curiously she was only supposed to use the phone for the first 30 minutes in every hour before our opposite number had precedence. As before the senior district nurse, Nurse Taylor, who lived within the grounds of Tattershall Castle, would ring daily to dole out patients to the three or four nurses under her charge. I recall in the mid sixties a Nurse Jackson covered the Woodhall Spa stretch and later on Nurse Mitchell, Nurse Eyre and my mother were brought in to share the increased work-load. My mother was not a midwife so she usually attended geriatric cases and long-term patients. The geographical area covered by my mother’s team was vast.  It stretched from Anton’s Gowt in the south (just outside Boston) to Horncastle and from Burgh le Marsh near Skegness to Billinghay just over the River Witham in the west. During the summer holidays I would travel with her on occasions reading my comic or listening to the radio whilst she visited some remote farm cottage out in the fen.

 On one occasion however I found myself in a right mess when, having fiddled with the car’s ignition, I caused the car to burst into life and it shot like a ferret after a rabbit right across a gravelled yard and through a low privet hedge. Although dramatic amazingly my escapade did little serious damage to both car and garden although my mother was none too pleased.

 As district nurse she visited some quaint places and met dozens of interesting characters over the years.

One lady she nursed, a member of the Lilley family, had been born and brought up in Teapot Hall, a unique, most curious example of vernacular cottage construction that stood just outside Dalderby off the Horncastle road. It was supposed to have been owned at one time by a retired captain of a tea clipper- hence its name. It was a timber-framed, thatched building shaped a bit like a section of Toblerone -  a prism in fact. Sadly it stood empty by the time of the Second world war and was burnt down in a fire in 1945 thought to have been started by some airmen celebrating the end of the war. The lady explained to my mother that at one time there were eight children living in the cottage with an outside privy (also thatched) and water only available from a pump outside the back door.

 Another patient was a former gamekeeper from Revesby Abbey who, at the time, still lived on the estate. He regaled mother with tales about shooting parties and grand dinners at the abbey when he was a young lad. Before the war his mother had worked in the kitchens of the great house and he would earn sixpence for assisting the chauffeurs polishing the cars of all the guests whilst visiting the Hall. He told her one story about a young lad from a local farm who was normally paid a few shillings to assist in ‘beating the bushes’ when visitors to the hall were invited to join a shooting party on nearby land. The lad was unlucky enough to get sprayed with shot on one occasion by one of the house-guests.  Fortunately he wasn’t badly hurt and as consolation for his injuries received a silver watch and chain from the guilty party.

Another of her patients was a descendent of George Jennings, one of the pioneers of the flush lavatory. I remember her telling me they still had a toilet and cistern decorated in blue peonies which they were still using every day in the 1970s.

After she retired she was still involved in caring when she joined the ranks of The Marie Curie and Macmillan nurses looking after terminally ill in the local community. She was also employed doing something that at the time I felt quite uneasy about; she would go out, often in the middle of the night, to assist the local undertakers, J.W. Sivill, in the laying out of the deceased. Only now can I look back and appreciate how hard she worked and how dedicated she was to serving her patients.

The Spaniel and the Mushroom Soup

 A lady was planning a supper party at her home for some close friends. She was a bit of a society snob and always liked to try and impress her dinner guests with the best locally sourced ingredients. She employed a cook who had a reputation for good, home-made rural fare. Unfortunately, on the day of the dinner, the cook was suddenly taken ill and couldn’t prepare the meal. The hostess knew that the maid was too inexperienced to be entrusted with preparing an impressive supper for her guests, so she decided she would have to prepare it herself.  She chose to serve a simple collation of the finest cold meats and cheese from the larder but thought she would also make a warming soup using a selection of mushrooms that she had found and picked in the adjacent woods whilst out walking with her pet spaniel . The maid queried this idea saying that Cook had often warned her that there were, “Many poisonous mushrooms in the woods that look just like the edible ones and perhaps Madam should reconsider serving wild mushroom soup.”

Madam, however, was having none of this and said she had made sure that the mushrooms she had picked were perfectly safe as she had given several pieces of the mushroom to the dog.

When the guests arrived she told them about the soup she had prepared and her way of testing the mushrooms. She went on to assure them that the dog was feeling fit and well. Supper went off very smoothly but a few moments after the dinner the maid suddenly ran screaming Into the dining room and shouted,

“Oh Madam, the dog is dead!”

The maid was instructed to ring for a couple of ambulances and after they arrived all the guests and the hostess were rushed to the A and E unit at the local hospital. After arriving at the hospital they all had their stomachs pumped using a nasogastric tube and a wash of activated charcoal, which was administered to prevent the absorption of any mushroom toxins. In addition, a strong bowel preparation of Colyte and magnesium citrate was given to all those who had partaken of the soup.

After a couple of hours the guests, feeling somewhat drained and weary, returned to the house of their hostess. The hostess ordered the maid to bring all her guests some strong coffee and brandy. When she returned with the drinks the maid said, ”Oh! by the way, the lorry driver is here to talk to madam.”

 Her hostess turned to the maid and asked, “What Lorry driver?”

The maid replied, “ The one who ran over the dog!”

Dog in a Suitcase

 About a year ago I recounted a true story about the pitfalls of owning a robotic floor cleaner in a house with a dog. It was only recently that I had occasion to meet up again with the person who had told me this story, my G.P. As I departed his surgery I happened to remark that if he had any more amusing dog stories he should let me know. Imagine my surprise when the next day, after my wife nipped into the surgery for a repeat prescription, the doctor called her in to recount the following rather sad doggy tale he’d been told.

A close friend of my GP had, after retiring as a doctor, been living abroad for several years in a small flat within an apartment building in Rumania. She was friends with a British couple in a village nearby whom she regularly visited. They owned an affectionate bulldog called Dexter, to whom she was equally devoted. Whenever her friends went abroad on holiday or came back to visit family in the UK she would dog-sit Dexter in their home. But as both Dexter and his minder got a little older and less agile Dexter started to spend the time when his owners were away staying in the lady doctor’s own flat.  Pets were not really permitted in the apartment block but as Dexter was docile, quite arthritic and not able to walk far, the doctor was able to accommodate Dexter without too much trouble and this arrangement suited both parties. As Dexter got frailer his owners were understandably more reluctant to leave him. Unfortunately, a family crisis one summer meant they needed to come over to the UK for several weeks and so arrangements were hastily made to leave Dexter with their friend. Sadly, whilst they were away, Dexter, aged 18, passed away peacefully. Dexter’s death was not only a sad event but left the doctor in something of a dilemma.  Being summer she urgently needed to dispose of the dog’s body in both a discrete and compassionate manner. There was no garden attached to her flat and she knew her friends had talked about their intention of having Dexter buried in their garden under an apple tree. She decided to break the news of Dexter’s death in a letter to her friends back in the UK but did not say anything else other that she was making arrangements to have Dexter buried in their garden. She went to their home and getting a spade from the toolshed attempted to dig a hole under the apple tree. Almost immediately she realized that this was not going to manage this chore on her own. Luckily Her friends employed a local man once a week to work In the garden and he who was able to pop round later that day to complete the digging of the hole.

She decided she would have to take Dexter there herself but as discretely as possible. In order to get him out of the flat she decided the only way she could do this was by putting his body in a large brown suitcase she kept on top of a wardrobe. As a doctor she coped with this chore with less difficulty than many others might have done. Getting the suitcase out of the apartment prooved more problematic as the lift in her apartment block was not working and she found herself having to lug the heavy suitcase down four flights of stairs.

She was quite relieved therefore, when a young man appeared in the stairwell and she decided to ask for his assistance. As he carried the suitcase for her, he remarked that it was very heavy and asked what she had inside. To avoid the embarrassment of explaining the true contents, she said that the suitcase contained an old computer and some software. At this the man suddenly gathered up the suitcase and ran off with it, out of the building  and down the road never to be seen again. The woman was left dumbfounded when she realized what had happened and wondered how she was she going to break the news to Dexter’s owners.  She decided, rightly or wrongly, that losing their beloved pet would be upsetting enough never mind having to explain that his body had been stolen. She decided that the best thing she could do was to find another old suitcase which she put in the bottom of the grave filled with some old magazines and books so that when the gardener popped back to fill in the hole he wouldnt inadvertently discover an empty suitcase where there should be a full one. Everything went to plan and not long after they returned from their trip all three friends gathered beneath the apple tree to say their farewells to Dexter. As far as my GP knew his old friend never let on what had really happened to Dexter. We can only imagine the shock that the suitcase thief got when he came to open the suitcase to examine his ill-gotten gains.

The Ballad of John Smith and Pocahontas

Some ‘ud say to be called Smith is rather boring

And what is more, to then be christened John

But a chap with such a name was destined for great fame

An explorer and a hero, all in one.

Just a farmer’s son from Willoughby near Alford

For many years he sailed the Spanish main

Amassed a fortune soldiering in Turkey

Then adventure beckoned westwards once again.

Plans to colonise Virginia for profit

Brought Captain Smith to land at Chesapeake

Soon settling in the spot we know as Jamestown

That grew along the shores beyond the creek.

Yet times were tough and many folks were starving

Apart from this they’d neighbour trouble too,

Some Indians of Powhatan were bruising for a fight

They  weren’t too fond of anybody new.

Now Captain Smith then tried his best to calm things

He went to have a parley with the chief.

But some redskin with a knife tried to finish off his life

And poor John lay there shaking like a leaf.

Yet one amongst the natives gathered round him

The daughter of the Chief, was most concerned.

She threw herself across his shakin’ body

As John Smith said, “I think me luck has turned.”

Now the maiden who had saved him, Pocahontas

Had kept him from a scalpin’ to be sure.

Soon the rumours started spreading that there soon could be a wedding

And together they would be for evermore.

But I tell you sommat now, that’s noat but rubbish

And Disney, they’re the folks we have to blame

For some other fella married Pocahontas

A tobacco planter, Thomas Wolfe 'is name.

So you cant believe the things you see at ‘pictures

Pocahontas  simply wasn’t  John Smith’s date

For starters when they met she was eleven

And Captain Smith, were pushing twenty-eight!

The Werewolf of Dogdyke

Ev you ‘eard o’ the Werewolf o’ Dogdyke?
It’ll be news to you, I’ve noa doubt.
A creature of legend you’re thinking
And noat to get fretted about.

Now many folk gab about werewolves.
‘It’s mere superstition,’ they say
But I knowed of an ode boy who seen one,
I’ll tell you his tale, if I may.

Way back in the twenties it ‘appened
This scientist feller, called Jones
Was delvin’ in Langrick Fen peat bog
When he dug up some very queer bones.

He carried ‘em back to his kitchin
And scrubbed ‘em to see what he’d found.
The skeleton looked pretty human
But the ‘ead was the skull of an ‘ound!

It rattled t’ode chap for a moment
He thought that it must be a hoax.
P’raps travelling fair-foak had left it
To put the wind up local folks

He was supping the dregs of his Horlicks
Whilst sorting the bones on the floor.
Summats out on the causey was scratting
And lifting the sneck o’ the door.


The noise from the causey alarmed ‘im
What on earth could be maakin’ the din?
He decided to peer through the winder
To see who was trying to git in.

For there i’ the glow of the moonlight
A glimpse o’ a figure he caught
A creature i’ black and all crooked
‘Ahh, that’ll be parson,’ he thought.

Then a ‘ideous face manifested,
The face o’ some creature from hell.
Jones ran to the petty and bolted the door
I suspect ‘e was feeling unwell.

Whilst the snarling and clawing continued
He lay back far-weltered and frit.
He weren’t gonna argle wi’ werewolf
‘e’d leave him to cool down a bit.

When dawn came Jones felt a bit better
He listened for sound o’ the beast.
“Perhaps he’s calmed down and gone home now”
Though he wasn’t convinced in the least

Then he stopped and he started to think why
The beast was in such a bad mood.
P’raps werewolf was just a bit hungry
And all that he wanted was food.


He decided to make ‘im some breakfast
Some cheese and plum loaf  ‘ud be fine
If only he’d been there last Sunday
He might ev enjoyed stuffed chine

He unbolted the door of the lavvy
Wi’ his stick he approached kitchin door
Now what if the beast were still in there
If he was, he ‘ud give him what for.

With ‘is hand on the sneck he just waited
And then in he bu’st at a pace
But there wasn’t noa beast to be found there
Just glass, smithered all ower the place.

I can’t say ‘e felt disappointed
That the beast had returned whence ‘ed came
But his paintwork ‘ud need touching up now
And ‘e’d only got hissen to blame.

So straightway he gathered the bones up
And returnin’ ‘em back to the fen
He hoped that the beast ‘ud forgive him
And not damage his paintwork agen.

So if iver you’re passing through Dogdyke
And walking your dog on your own
Doan’t let ‘im run off in the peat bog
He might cum on back wi’ a bone!

The above is my attempt at Lincolnshire dialect to retell a tale told to me some forty years ago by Mrs Rudkin of Toynton.

Ethel H Rudkin (1893-1985)

Mrs Rudkin, was a respected local historian well known during the last century throughout the length and breadth of Lincolnshire. Born Ethel Hutchinson in Willoughton, she was a dedicated collector of Lincolnshire ephemera. She was active not only in the fields of local history but in archaeology, local traditions, music, folk-lore, and dialect. From the age of 12 she kept a detailed diary which she continued to write up until her death at the age of 92.

The first part of her diary to be published recounted her early life in Willoughton where she lived with her family.  There was a gap during the first world war when in 1915 she married George Rudkin of  Folkingham. Then sometime after he died in the influenza epidemic of 1918 she became housekeeper for his brother and helped to run the family farm. Her own house at Willoughton became a virtual museum, a place of pilgrimage for many researchers, packed with artefacts, farm implements, and memorabilia, as well as books and manuscripts. Several farm wagons and other agricultural vehicles that she had rescued, but which she had no room for, were stored in a variety of farm buildings belonging to different friends in nearby villages. Her main folklore collecting, in the 1920s and 1930s, was made directly from the people of the villages up and down the county and covered a broad range of topics. In 1927 she helped C.W. Phillips in revising the ancient monuments for the Ordnance Survey maps containing snippets of local information, conversations, historical facts and accounts of interesting journeys in her Bull-nosed Morris.

A string of articles published in the Folklore Society's journal included descriptions of many local customs which were celebrated at different times of the year in villages throughout  Lincolnshire. Much of her own research involved beliefs in witches and devils, stone-lore, and over a dozen ‘Black Dog’ stories one of which was that of the hound/werewolf of Dogdyke. She spent little of her long life away from her native Lincolnshire yet although she wrote many papers and contributed articles to a variety of magazines yet with little recognition or encouragement. She only wrote one book, Lincolnshire Folklore. This was published at her own expense in 1936.

She wrote in the second volume of her diary, which covered just one year, 1932 It contained tales of many Lincolnshire characters she’d encountered. One story is of her visit to the hamlet of Scredington where she met an old lady, Mrs Carter, who still dressed in traditional Lincolnshire Victorian style and could neither read nor write. She wrote an account of a visit to the deserted village of Gainsthorpe near Hibaldstow and retold the legend of Byard's Leap. She made several trips to healing wells and springs in north Lincolnshire, many of which in the years just before the Second World War still displayed rags and bandages on the bushes nearby as tokens from those who claimed to have been cured.

In later life Mrs Rudkin moved to a small cottage in Toynton All Saints where she continued her digging and archaeological studies for many years with the help of her friend and companion, Lucy Arliss. After building a larger bungalow to accommodate more relics she continued her researches, working on the site of the nearby manor of Eresby and the brickworks at East Keal. It must have been during in the early 1960s when I was introduced to her by my aunt and uncle (Fred and Jean Shaw) who at that time owned Brickfields Farm at East Keal and which had previously been my mother’s childhood home.

 

 

The Paints bright-the future's orange

 During to the Paralympics, one of the students at the special school where I work, a keen table tennis player with hemiplegia, asked me which was my Paralympic sport. I explained that the Paralympics were for people who had some form of disability and I wouldn’t be able to take part as I didn’t have a disability. He looked puzzled and then said, “You have sir, you’re colour blind.” Although I laughed at the idea he was evidently quite serious and thought such a condition was a definite disability. We then discussed what sort of sporting event people with colour blindness might compete in; striking matching coloured bulbs flashing on a light-wall perhaps. I suggested stepping on a predefined sequence of colour-coded floor-tiles that light up like those you found in some discotheques in the 70s; he had no idea what I was talking about.

Over the years it has amused numerous students when I have coloured leaves brown or the sea-water purple. Some imagine I see things only in black and white or ask me such questions as what colour is the grass? When I say, “Green of course” the response I get is usually, “Well you’re not colour blind then.” It’s as if I was trying to stir up some compassion by posing as a victim of colour blindness. Describing colour blindness to someone who isn’t is pretty difficult. It was only after I picked up a copy of “Ishihara’s Tests for Colour Blindness” in a second hand book shop that my own kids finally realised the extent of my disability. It’s all a question of shading and context. In certain lights certain shades of brown, red, green, blue and purple prove hard to distinguish. My wife still likes to tease me about some trousers I once bought, before we were married, which I thought were a subtle beige cheque but which she tells me were mustard and made me look like Rupert Bear. I cannot say it is a handicap but it does raise problems. Electrical wiring can be tricky and clothes remain a bit of a dodgy area in relation to any attempt at coordination. My own children have remarked on occasions, “Did you put those things on together or has mum had to sort you out.” Choosing and matching items in the décor around the home has never been easy for me which brings me to the subject of DIY. Leaving colour blindness to one side I have never been adept at DIY. Drilling holes normally results in a series of test bores before one is achieved that is of the right size and diameter to fit the screw and raw-plug. Shelves usually have a habit of sloping at a jaunty angle. Even furniture from a well-known Swedish superstore that’s all about clean, straight lines in my hands ends up looking rather less than chique when I have constructed them. Once I managed to mank pieces together in such a way that empty screw holes remained visible on the exterior when none should have been showing; and my Billy bookcase looked more like a Kevin. My wife and I do share painting tasks; she doing everything up to a height of 5ft 2 and me using all of my 6ft 4inches to finish off everything above her height. This normally gets us over any difficulty with colour matching. However recently I came unstuck.

  We own a small chalet about 4 miles in from the Norfolk coast. Our family refer to it as the ‘shack’ so you may infer it is nothing grand, more like a garden shed really. It stands with others on a small holiday park out in the marshes surrounded by willow trees. About fifty years old it is constructed of what I believe is called shiplap; lengths of planed, overlapping timber strips. Waterproofing is essential in any location so near the North Sea and this is achieved using a paint treatment which also stains the timber. There is understanding on the site that the chalets are painted every 5-8 years using one of a range of 5 natural colours. These come with such names as rustic oak, forest green, autumn brown and red cedar. Having discovered an old can in the chalet labelled ‘red cedar’ we assumed that this was the colour used by the previous owners.



So after nearly ten years without painting we were obliged to visit our local hardware store to buy a new supply of preservative. It wasn’t an easy task as there were dozens of products to choose from. After some close scrutiny of the colour chart my wife plumped for a can of ‘Rich cedar’ as the one she thought resembled closest that used previously.

 

Chalet Before 'Orange' upgrade


I was a little nervous at being sent to carry out the repainting mission on my own.  I was doubly unsure after opening the tin and observing the bright orange liquid within. I then thought, ‘No its your colour blindness it must be brown.’ I painted a panel about two feet wide on the rear wall of the chalet and then paused. It still looked orange. I was losing confidence so I decided I needed a second opinion. I went and knocked at the open door of a chalet nearby. An old boy of around seventy emerged and I asked him if he could spare a moment to help me out of a dilemma.  I asked him to glance over my handiwork and reassure me that what I was using was the right colour of wood preserver. He followed me to the rear of our chalet during which time he informed me that he was a retired painter and decorator; I knew I had the right chap for the job. Around the back of our chalet the professional took a sharp intake of breath before saying, “Oo-yer that’s a bit orangey.” My heart sank. I showed him the tin and even fetched the empty can from out of the rubbish bin. He agreed that although the names of the shades were similar my paint was distinctly more orange than that which had gone on before. He then launched into a lecture about burnt sienna and ferric oxides which lost me. We decided that I might do better taking a sliver of painted wood showing the original colour down to the local ironmongers’ to see if they had any alternative timber stain. I was pretty peeved having already splashed out on one expensive tin of stain but decided it was the only option. My visit to the ironmongers’ proved a little confusing as they had another range of fancy-named products; American walnut, harvest brown etc. Using the wood sliver I’d taken we found one that seemed to match. Fortunately the shopkeeper told me I could return the product unopened if I decided it wasn’t right.

Returning to the chalet I was confused. The patch of timber wall I had painted two hours earlier was now darkening. My expert from the chalet next door was equally puzzled how the orange seemed to be ‘fading back.’ What was I to do? I decided to plough on with the original treatment. But things did not get easier. I continued painting whilst sensing the perplexed glances of the odd passer-by. This was all right as no one commented until a precocious child came around the corner holding a football, he looked up at me and without hesitation said, “Why are you doing it orange?”

I retorted, “It’s rich cedar, but it’s not dry yet.”

“Cedar’s a tree isn’t it, is it an orange tree?”

“No, It’s not orange it’s got a magic ingredient in it that makes it go brown when it dries.”

“Oh” said the brat and vanished.  In response to a, “How are things going with the painting?” text message from the wife I sent a reply to say all was fine and I’d finished one side of the chalet. I decided against sending a photograph.

After a night’s sleep I rose early to see if the colour had subsided. It wasn’t as bright anymore but there was still a definite glow to the newly painted rear wall. I proceeded to paint the front wall but had only been at it twenty minutes when the first group of local critics hove into view. Comments included, “Gosh that’s bright you’ve been tangoed….well that should make it stand out among the rest …isn’t that the colour they use on the Happisburgh lighthouse?” I simply smiled. I was anxious to finish so that the sun could do its work drying out the timbers thereby allowing the orange paint to ‘fade back’ to a warm brown. I returned the unopened can of timber paint to the local ironmongers, they were very understanding and nipped into a local café to have an all-day breakfast as my reward for a job well done. Who should come into the café but the decorating expert neighbour from the other chalet plus wife. “See you stuck with the orangey stuff then.” I smiled and explained that I thought it would probably be all right when it dried. Whilst he went off to the counter to place his order his wife turned to me and made her first and only contribution to the conversation. “It looks fine, me duck, I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he says anyway, he’s a bit coloured blind!

The Princess, the Railway and the Donkey

Recently I heard a most curious tale about a polish princess, a railway crossing and a donkey. No, it’s not a joke but a true story dating back some 50 years. By the banks of the river Stour in the hamlet of Rodbridge there stood a railway crossing. In the early sixties the small white cottage nearby was occupied by a crossing keeper with a pretty unique history. She was a middle-aged polish émigré but what was unusual was that she was descended from royalty. Her name was Her Royal Highness Princess Madelein von Dembinska. Since the end of the First World War her family had been exiled but her mother had continued to fight to try and reclaim property in their homeland of Poland. Unfortunately they had not succeeded in their fight and when their mother died the the princess and her brother (Prince Eric) and sister had fallen on hard times and had been forced to take up employment in order to live. The princess was a well known local character in the villages around the railway crossing and she got on well with her neighbours.

Until that is the day that a local farmer called at her cottage to say that one of the shafts on his donkey cart had broken and he needed to leave the donkey in the meadow adjacent to the level crossing whilst he took the cart to the local blacksmith to be mended. He wanted to know if the princess minded just keeping the donkey’s water topped up whilst he was gone. The princess agreed. A couple of days later the farmer returned to collect the donkey. He called in the crossing cottage to thank the princess. He found her in a bit of a tizzy and asked what was the matter. She told him that she had not slept well for two nights. She explained that at four the previous morning she had rushed down to open the crossing gates, her alarm had not gone off, in fact she was only alerted to the fact that the express mail train was approaching because she had been woken by the strident two tone warning siren of the train. But when the train didn’t arrive she realised she had risen an hour and a half too early. After returning to bed she went back to sleep until her alarm went at the correct time and she opened the gates. She said for the 5:30 train. The same thing had happened that morning aswell. She had been woken by the train siren in the early hours. Again she had rushed down to open the gates. The farmer commented that she was very diligent to react in such a quick and conscientious manner. But the princess explained that this time she soon realised that it was not the siren of the train that had been waking her but the donkey heehawing in a similar fashion. Consequently she was insisting the farmer removed his donkey as quickly as possible.