Alex James: The Great Escape

A journalist asked me last week how many sheep I had and I realised I had absolutely no idea. I like to keep abreast of the price of bread - I'm always ready for that one - but I was caught out fair and square in the ovine reality region. There's always so much going on here, and people asking questions about everything, that I have a special arrangement with Fred, the sheep farmer, where we just wave at each other and smile. He never asks me any questions, and I never ask him any. He just beeps, waves and grins. It suits us both very well and I must say I enjoy sheep farming tremendously.

Fred has a glamorous young assistant called Paul. Paul's family have been living and working in and around the village since the 13th century. I bought some very unusual cucumbers from his mother at the village fete. They were excellent. It didn't really register that he was such a good-looking lad but visiting ladies are always asking what his name is. Last week someone said they thought he looked like an extra from Italian Vogue. Weirdly enough, this week I got a call from Italian Vogue. They've never called before, not even when it was Britpop. It seems farms are the rage all of a sudden. You can tell things are kicking off when the Italians start showing up. They want to do some pictures with the sheep.

I went down to the muddy patch where Fred and Paul loiter about. "How many sheep are there, Fred? It's a bit embarrassing, someone asked me and I didn't know." He didn't know either. "It varies, Alec, you see," Paul agreed. I wish I'd thought of saying that. It's a good answer when you've got no idea what you're talking about. I wasn't buying it, though. I mean, everything varies apart from the speed of light in a vacuum, and if gravity waves exist, even that rock of dependability might be just another sponge of uncertainty. I pushed for an answer. "Varies between what and what?"

"Four or five hundred, probably, see, now, then there's lambs to come. Then there's Gwynne's as well, see. He'll have a few, too."

Gwynne is a bonny, quad bike-riding Welshman with huge woolly sideburns and a dog that seems to be called Bastard. He has some of the fields, but it's Fred who does all the waving.

"Fair enough. It's probably cooler not to know anyway. Oh, and Paul, Italian Vogue are coming, would you mind being in the photos?"

He was so refreshingly and wonderfully unfazed, unimpressed. "All right then," he said.

"Talking of showbiz, how did it go at Moreton, Fred?" Moreton Show is the regional agricultural event, held every September. I had no idea, but he'd swept the board, won all kinds of prizes. I always thought it's the best lamb I've ever eaten, but I'd assumed it was just one of those things that happens when you have your own lambs, like thinking your own children are special.

Try smiling and waving. It works wonders.

a.james@independent.co.uk