It’s finally happened.

I always thought that “Man, mighty hunter” was indefatigable? That no mere Adam’s Rib (guileful and wileful as they have often proven themselves to be) could possibly outdo Mighty Male (namely, moiself)?

Alas, how we mighty are fallen … t’was ever thus.
And this is how it thussed, exactly, with nary a bit changed to salvage my savaged pride—

—but first a wee relevant digression:

In Britain they have a quaint custom (some of ‘em still do but it may be dying out now) on first meeting of the first day of the month to bring luck by exclaiming “White rabbits!”.
My Welsh Mother in Law used to say “Bunny bunny bunny” but that’s just a charming wee foreign variation on the theme.
Now back to my sorry tale of woe …

For about five months in a row I have been ‘bunnying’ the Spouse and getting in first.

It felt good, really good, wonderful in fact, to watch the frustration each time as she realised that she’d been caught again (and would never outwit Man, the Mighty Husband, Lord & Master etc) (I’m a Leo … sue me).

I got to feeling pretty good with myself, which feeling always makes me benign, and leads to a lowered guard and relaxed vigilance.

While she, poor downtrodden victim, with ever-increasing motivation was girding her loins (so to speak). Certainly she was gritting her teeth, I could hear the grinding.

I should have known.

I get up first on weekday mornings — it’s amazing what an icy foot applied to the middle of whatever nice warm part she reaches first can do. Acceleration? Give me wings—I leave that waterbed like a greased torpedo; while the privileged (think aristocratic) half of the team snuggles back down. My envy I could handle if only she wouldn’t purr so blasted loudly.

So of course I have a tactical advantage, one that just about offsets my absent-minded habit of forgetting bunnies and things until almost too late.

So a couple of days ago I ran through the usual pre-departure things (coffee, wash, brush, shave, brekkie, computer, coffee, brush etc etc); then just as I was passing the bedroom door (still dark and silent within, note) en route the kitchen, on tip-toe (get this, out of consideration for the still sleeping) I was suddenly and mercilessly ambushed out of nowhere by a vindictive demented little minx determined to thrust home an advantage.

Ever heard the words “Bunny” and “White rabbits” blended with the more widespread “A pinch (nip!) and a punch (bop!) for the first of the month and NO RETURNS!” garbled incoherently in tones of pure triumph?

Lucky, she is, that even after all these years I can still intercept a conditioned reflex; but would she (eyes sparkling, cheeks aglow) concede the point that I’d just saved her from grievous bodily harm? No … she had the bit in her teeth as it were and was running before the wind, bow wave swamping all, including poor husbands shivering from a surfeit of quick-release but unaddressed adrenalin.

Like I say, never underestimate a resourceful opponent.

Especially never underestimate your betrothed when she is niggled by your oft demonstrated tactical superiority — you might just learn something about strategy.

KISMET

Today was Winton’s annual open day. This year they called it ‘Ice Cream Sunday’ and the theme was ice-cream … all very well and good, except that Spouse and I don’t eat ice-cream—we have other, more fleshy, delights. Think rampant carnivore.

So I drifted like a sampling rabbit from street-barbecue to barbecue, and sampled. There’s something about the savoury smell of smoke from a scrumptiously sizzling sausage, a siren song that reaches out, catches the attention and drags one in. I’m easy, a sucker for a snag.

So with Spouse thinking many tuts (on Open Day she’s not allowed to bleat, but I could FEEL the silent disapproval) (we husbands are psychic like that) I sampled sausages, and coffee, and venison, and coffee, and sausages, and chips (that’s French Fries to some) and sausages; and filled in my day productively whilst she rabbited through all the usual girlie stuff (blouses, perfumes, craft bits, a polished beach-rock pendant and suchlike).

The weather was kind, unreal after all the gales and re-entrant wintry blasts of the last few weeks (global warming? Yes please—back up the truck, and give it wings!) that made such a mockery of the spring thus far.

Not unlike the day the ‘Gypsy Fair’ passed through Invercargill a while ago, actually.

I have a fantastic zoom on my wee camera and love getting candids of people simply being people, hence this reflective young man—

—I’ve often wondered what he saw in that mirror. As for the wee passing Maori boy, all he would have seen would’ve been the caravans and wagons and stalls (I was an awesome way off behind an awning).

All good fun, and only a whole year to wait for the next one …

KISMET

I just had to show you this grand old lady. If you want to visit and pay homage or whatever it is one does to Grand Old Ladies you’ll find her alongside in Queenstown, New Zealand’s South Island—

TSS Earnslaw

—otherwise just enjoy the scenery. I live in Winton, the Spouse and I go visit about twice a year (whenever we feel the need for fresh air and tourists).

The coffee’s great there, too!

In the beginning all was void and without form. Then after a very busy few days and nights God created Man, in His own image.

This is the gospel truth, which has to mean that there’s a feminine variant of God …

Now flash forward some years (about six thousand by some counts, about 14,000,000,000 by others) to ME in the here and now:

= = = = = = = = = = =
Knock knock!
“Who’s there?” Damn. I’m busy—delegate.

“Toots?”
“Eep?”
“Can you get that, please?”

Mutter mutter mutter … click, followed by indistinct voices.

Door closes, two lots of footsteps.

Uh oh. A visitor, and me up to my elbows in old-fashioned pen and pages—blasted power cut. Damn again. Curiosity.

“Who is it, Toots?”
“No-one you know — it’s Mrs God. She says she’s calling in person to see you after your recent blog posts. Who’ve you cranked up this time?”

Bugger.
“What’s she want?”
“Just a chat. Says she knows you’re busy and will be until you finish that commentary on the polar bears — I didn’t know you wrote about polar bears?”

Poop. Other than me no-one does, I’ve just started it. Oh! Mrs God, of course.

“Tell her I’ll be right out—”
“In about twelve minutes, She says. I’d offer Her a coffee but the power’s still off — oh, no problem, She’s got the jug going.”
“It’s still off in here.”
“And here — it’s only on at the jug. Weird.”
“Whom did you say it was?”
“Mrs God … … … … … … oh.”

That might explain something.

“Can you get Her to—” My computer boots into life.
“—thanks. Appreciated.”

Again I marvel at my own ability to accept the unacceptable at a moment’s notice. Okay, miracles sometimes do take a little longer, no problem.
Now, polar bears, something important in the great scheme of things … aaaah.

Still marveling I shift from pen to keyboard, momentarily resenting that She hadn’t called earlier. Honestly, some People …

“She says She’s sorry about that! A minor miracle was needed at short notice in Afghanistan, to stop some more Buddha statues being blown up. Took a bit longer than She expected. Bloody heathens.”

Oh.
A thought—
“Couldn’t Hubby have done it?”
“She’s not speaking to Him right now. Something to do with His ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude, She says.”

Coffee noises float in through my doorway, followed by a heavenly scent. Blue Mountain, my favourite, how did She know? Oops, dumb questi—

“Omniscience, She says. It can be a bit of a pain too, sometimes.”

Wait—
“Buddhas? I’d have thought She’d be happy the competition was being blown up?”

A loud appreciative slurp is followed by Spouse’s voice, tinged with deepest appreciation (think orgasmic, only more so).
“She says that it’s Mr God who’s the jealous one, she’s more the live-and-let-live type Herself. Anyway, competition is healthy, lowers the costs, so the believer benefits all round.”

Ye gods. A capitalistic free-thinking God? Goddess?
A thought.
“What’s She look like?”
“She says get on with your writing — and to stop hammering anthropogenic as being too man-made, it’s a lost subtlety.”

Gone. Just like that, a whole morning’s scratchings.
Rip. Shred, tear, rip. Control A + delete. Start again.
“Does She have any suggestions?”

“Argie, She’s gorgeous! And says to use your own free will, She’s not going to write it for you … eh? What? … Oh! (Okay, I’ll tell him) … but your article on revamping NZ politics sure stirred ‘em up!”

“I haven’t written one!”
“Next week — She apologised for mixing the dates up, says being in next week as well as here now can sometimes get confusing.”

NZ politics? Now there’s a thought.
“Should I come out there?” I know the Spouse, her idea of gorgeous means absolutely divine. Oops.

“No point, She says. You have to believe first. Disbelievers can never see Her.”

Bummer.

I watch in disbelief as a coffee floats in through the doorway and parks itself neatly between keyboard and mouse. Coffee at least is real. My hair fluffles to an unseen soft touch and I feel a light kiss on the back of my neck. Instant goosebumps.
“So you believe in God, Toots? I never knew that.”

“Not in God, no. Mrs God, yes — it’s a girlie thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Witch. Thanks for the coffee, anyway. A thousand questions flood my mind. At last, a chance for some answers.

“Pan! She’s grabbed her handbag and heading for the door—”

Damn! So close, yet so far.

“—She says that if you’re going to get all metaphysical on Her She’s out of here—what have you done?”

Me? Nothing. Yet. Eek.
My keyboard explodes into life and this posting writes itself before my eyes in mere milliseconds. I lean forward and obediently sip from the coffee floating in front of my lips while the keys rattle on. Cute.

The script switches to bold italics — goody, I like italics — and this post finished itself just as the front door closes with a gentle, final, and perfectly omnipotent click.

KISMET

One of my recent comments was edited by the recipient, as is his right and privilege. “Please, no foul language”.

I stand embarrassed — swearing is not my style. If I cause offence by accident that’s even worse; generally if I offend someone it’s because I mean to.

So I need a polite and acceptable universal euphemism for what in English we consider “robust Anglo-Saxon” words. Henceforth, if no-one will be offended, please may I say “Poop”?

What I actually used was (ironically, we in New Zealand consider it to be the quintessential Americanism) “dammit“.    (I didn’t even use “God damn it” which to a fundamentalist Christian might well be offensive.)

Henceforth in my blogs —  poop — !

(If that’s not too strong? Please advise …).

WE TAKE OUR DAILY DOSE OF MILK FOR GRANTED, don’t we?

Milk is white juice in plastic bottles from the supermarket; pasteurised, homogenised, discombobulised, calcium enriched, lo-fatted, nuked, devitaminised, revitaminised; ideally suited to turning black coffee white or reducing crispy wheaten things to a soggy grey goo.

At the back of our minds the thought may lurk that there are animals in the loop somewhere—large gentle ruminant beasts with eyelashes to die for, that repose in languid pastures and blissfully convert mouthfuls of lush vegetation to golden cream.

But such thoughts are distant. Reality is the here and now: fill the trolley and move on.

Few of us are aware of the other, hidden, side of milk … the HUMAN face of milking.

Needing an extra buck, I found myself alongside a Southland dairy farmer standing to the very immediate south of five hundred north-facing cows on a rotary. New title: Trainee Relief Milker …

* * *

“Milking’s a doddle—you just take the cups off as the cows go by.”

Wow. Even I can do that. I nod and the farmer (Bill) grins. I’m clad in my own ancient rubber boots and his rubber apron. Even at this late stage I don’t twig, a moment’s thought should have me wondering why a milker’s apron needs be so … all-embracing. That moment passes unheeded.

The carousel starts to move.

More cows amble on and take their places, one to each bale; patient, gentle, aromatic.

“This is the cups unit—pull this little knob to break the vacuum, then ease the cups off the cow. Hang ‘em here; then you squirt the teats with this conditioning wand as she’s backing out. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

Seems simple enough.

My first cow arrives, I reach out.

“Not that one, she’s still going. Chain her up.” How nice. My very first cow and she’s kinky.

“Quickly, like this.”

A few deft movements and the cow is chained into her bin. I sense a degree of bovine resentment. Her tail twitches.

“Sharp now, next one’s here.”

I reach out a tentative hand—

BOOM

Reflexes withdraw my hand a millisecond before it is reduced to atoms. The whole world reverberates. Nice tone.

“Watch out for that, now, sometimes they like to kick.”

I gaze at the apparently sleeping cow in awe. Her tail flicks idly, a desiccated dung goes ping somewhere in the far, far distance.

“Here, watch me.”

He strolls casually down the line. Cups leap off and hang themselves up as he passes. A mystic wave with the wand, tails flick aside in unison and all teats drip conditioner. I’m to be paid for doing this? It almost seems criminal.

“Your turn.”

Inspired, I try again.

My cow starts dancing, hopping about and shaking with a rapturous empassionment. The cups are rattling in there somewhere, I lunge and achieve a grip by pure luck. I tug, and pull; then heave. It’s a lot like trying to separate a short-sighted amorous octopus from discarded bagpipes. Finally, after a colossal yank I stand panting, a full day’s work done already.

“Next time break the vacuum first.” Oh, yes, that blessed knob, of course—

“Lively now! Squirt her! Hang those cups up, on to the next.”

Clank. Squirt. Clank. Squirt.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank, clatter, desperate slither—

At last I get the cups onto their hook. With dry teats and a well-conditioned tail she’s already backing out, I swear she’s grinning.

“Sharp now, next one, you’re getting behind!”

Getting behind? I look up, from here it’s all behinds, an endless line of behinds curving in from infinity. Outstretched tails, too, some of them; cute. Oh yes, next cow.

I lunge and grab, keeping clear of possible kicks. Hah! You don’t catch me a second ti— —momentarily my world blazes (Oh look, stars!).

Some inbuilt monitor laconically tells my brain that I’ve just been bopped, and by an expert. On the edge of vision I see a medieval mace swinging back for the coup de grace; mission-minded I snatch my cups and leap away just as the mace clangs the rail with a shock that would’ve opened the Titanic like a can of worms.

“Tails. You get used to them.”

Tails. Kicks. Horns. Hoofs. What next? Do cows bite?

GLUG

“Never mind that! Get those cups—you’ll soon dry.”

Redolent of straw a warm waterfall passes over me and away. The tail lowers. I get my own back with an indignant burst of conditioner—

“Easy! That stuff’s expensive!”

SQUELCH

Squelch? I look down.

Maybe I should’ve heeded good advice and tucked my trousers into my boots … a point to me, though, only one leg is green, I still have a spare.

“Chain this one.”

Oops, only half a chain but all a cow. Now what—

“Other side! Pull it over and mate the hooks. Quickly, you’re running out of time.”

Of course, done like that it might just about almost reach—can I persuade her forward a bit?

Obviously married, she backs up.

Bill waves me out of the way and leans over. The cow moves forward, hooks join and the next three lots of cups jump from their udders. Teats drip exactly the right amount of conditioner, all without missing a beat.

“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it. I’ll be close by, sing out if you need help.”

Croak

He’s gone, too late to sing. Anyway, I can do this—people do it every day, and I’m a people.

Now that he’s no longer here the carousel blatantly accelerates to sub-orbital (or is it just my paranoia kicking in?).

SPLUDGE

Spludge? Oh no. Did someone just say spludge?

SPLAT, too.

What sort of thing goes spludge? No, don’t answer that, I really don’t want to know …

I take my baptism like a man. Mainly because I have no option, there’s nowhere to run, no place to hide, and no farmer within range to whom I can give immediate notice.

The next seven hundred years fly by until the final cow departs with a full-body belch that rattles the rafters. She backs elegantly out through a thick carpet of goo. Nice green.

“Now we hose out—here’s your hose; this button on the console starts the pump.”

Absolutely pooped, and tired as well, I accept my hose and take aim at the only spot of concrete visible in an emerald world. (At last, something I know. I can DO hose, I went through the navy’s fire-school twice and did the Offshore Survival course in Aberdeen. Hose? Hah!) I twist the nozzle.

Newton’s laws kick in. The recoil lifts me off my feet and slams me against the wall, poo explodes in all directions then I’m flat on my back blasting the roof. The one thing I do not do is let go of the hose, in fact I do my level best to strangle the blasted thing; I know it will beat me to a soggy jelly given half a chance. To the death, then, no quarter asked and none given.

Almost drowned (what goes up comes down) (Newton? Einstein? Count Duckula?) I grope blindly for the nozzle and shut off the flow; instant limpness as the hose goes hard. Harder.

“If ever you’re through hosing we scrub down the steel, and all the brickwork—”

Oh, goody, hygiene. I like that in my milk.

“—then we hose out again. After that scrub your apron and hang it up, then you may go home.”

Oh, wow. Home. Sweet distant dream.

I arrive home a conqueror, Man the Mighty Hunter, breadwinner; we eat again—

“Ye UTTER gods!”

Not quite the rapturous welcome I’m expecting.

The mop in the face I definitely am not expecting.

“Outside, you!”

She’s lovely when she’s roused, a vixen defending her earth—

“Get that lot off! Shower! NOW!”

Nude, aromatic and freezing, I’m marched at mop-point through to the bathroom and left to run my own shower, wondering if Ug the Neanderthal got the same treatment when he fronted up back at the cave after a hard day on the mammoths.

Somehow I doubt it. Ug had it easy.

I console myself with a thought that at least I know now where we can get our milk from in future:

FROM LITTLE PLASTIC BOTTLES IN SUPERMARKETS, THAT’S WHERE!