Then after a busy few days and nights God created Man, in His own image. This is the gospel truth, which then has to mean ipso facto 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 been cranking 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.

“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’s apologising for mixing the dates up, says being in next week as well as the here-and-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.

“Argie! 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 post 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 big bold italics — goody, I like italics — and the post finished itself just as the front door closes with a gentle, final, and perfectly omnipotent click.

KISMET

‘Daddy!’

‘Yes, little Olivia?’

‘Please tell me a story! You owe me a story, I’ve been good for a whole week.’

‘Then climb upon my knee, bonny child, and I’ll tell you a tale of the fish of the sea—’

‘Can them fish, Pops! I want economics, and thrilling stuff like current affairs and world events—’

‘—or, if you like a tale of the Viking hordes—’

‘Yay! Oodles of rape and pillage, bloody violence, an ‘X’ certificate?’  

‘Hmmm … too much television and sugary drinks, I’ll have to cens—’

‘No, Daddy! Newspapers and Time magazine; and the other kids at school. You can learn a lot in the playground—’

‘Okay. But we’ll have history, a moral, current affairs, politics, lust, debauchery … actually just social commentary on human values but with an ancient nautical theme. Comfy?

‘Let ‘er rip, Daddy! Please.’

‘About a thousand years ago when the world was much warmer than it is now—’

‘Has Al Gore approved this?’

‘Hush child. All will be revealed in the fullness of time.’

‘Popcorn, Pop?’

‘When we get to the intermission, not before. I’ll make coffee, you pop the corn. Now, once upon a warmer time the Scandinavian races we now know as Vikings created an absolute masterpiece of a vessel they called a Dragon Ship’.’

‘Oooooh …’

“It was made with overlapping planks and because of the lack of a solid internal framing it was very light and flexed to the mocean of the otion—’

‘Daddy, I heard that! You’re setting me a bad example.’

‘—and in them the Vikings spread out far and wide, taking with them peace, trade, goodwill, freedom, and democracy everywhere they went—’

‘Setting the precedent, Daddy?’

‘You’ve got it, Toots … they even crossed the Atlantic as far as mainland America.’

‘Wow …’

‘They settled Greenland too, you know—’

‘Oh come on, Daddy! Greenland is all ice and snow and melting glaciers and stuff! Nobody could ever live there, especially without central heating and polyester jackets over polypro thermals—’

‘Settle down, Pest. Don’t just take my word for it, go look it up. Much warmer then! But this is an allegorical story—’

‘Allegorical, Daddy?’

‘Means concealed message.’

‘Oh. You didn’t say I’d have to think, Daddy, I just want to be entertained.You know, mindless pap sort of story. And no commercials.’

‘So like all my stories you can take it entirely on face value and just enjoy. Anyway, this expedition’s leader was a Viking called Knut. A swarthy chap, jovial, real optimist, nothing ever fazed him. If anything got in his way he’d just hack it aside with his trusty sword or chop it away with his battle-axe called Peacebringer.’

‘I like him, Daddy.’

‘Good girl. And Knut had advisers, too. The one he listened to most — actually, the power behind the throne, as it were — was a bald-headed man with a beard called Baen the Cranky. Baen kept the accounts and handled finances, which freed Knut from having to think beyond handling the ship and the next conquest.’

‘Sounds like a good team, Daddy. How many in the crew?’

‘This ship had woollen sails and single shielded bank of twenty-two oars on each side. It would go like the wind with the wind and in adverse conditions the slaves would row—’

‘I thought Vikings were free men, Daddy?’

‘No, Child. They were all slaves, they just didn’t know it. What they didn’t know didn’t hurt them and they worked all the harder for it … and look at the savings in whips.’

‘So that’s forty-six souls on board, Daddy?’

‘Clever girl! But wait, there’s more … two banks of twenty-two making forty-four, plus a couple of cooks who also helped with the accounts, one seer who did the navigating ‘cos he had the lodestone and the quartz, and a minstrel who also helped keep the ship clean.’

‘Counting Knut and Baen, that’s fifty, Daddy.’

‘Well done, child.’

‘So where does Al come in? You only mentioned climate briefly and even then you got it wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘You said it was warmer back then but it couldn’t have been—’

‘Little Olivia, please let your Daddy finish! So they set sail to the west, for the fabled Vinland where grapes grew in rapturous abandonment and the Skaerlings fired arrows at any Norseman bringing them freedom—’

‘That sounds a bit antisocial, Daddy.’

‘It worked though, Toots. Knut’s ship—’

‘What was its name, Daddy?’

‘How about Phaedra? We can call it Phed, for short; but I have reservations—’

‘Phed will do, Daddy. Please get on with it.’

‘Now the ship to all appearances was magnificent,the biggest and most powerful ship that ever floated—’

‘Goody! I feel safe with the Phed, Daddy.’

‘—but the previous captain (who was famed for his magnificent bushy beard) and his adviser a guy called Allunna Greenbridge (he got seasick a lot) had several near disasters with rocky shoals and actually hit some highly visible rocks. Despite half the crew shouting warnings they drove on ahead, luckily it was just a glancing blow but the damage was done below the waterline. They were actually very happy to pass the ship on to the next officers—’

‘Knut and Cranky?’

‘That’s them. They knew, of course, but so long as the minstrel kept plugging the leaks when they opened and the bilges pumped the crew didn’t care. All they cared about was plunder, mead, and forcing their attentions upon damsels wherever they could—’

‘Oh!’

‘But as soon as they set sail for the west this time the seer became all agitated and started predicting doom, gloom, and disaster—’

‘A Jonah? You don’t need one of those on a ship do you, Daddy?’

‘Not when they’re right, my Cherub. But Baen shouted much much louder so the crew listened to him and they ignored the seer completely, even when the water started lapping round their feet. Actually they amused themselves by mocking him and pointing out all the many reasons why the ship couldn’t possibly sink — it’s made of wood, for one thing, and everyone knows wood floats — even when it started settling by the bows—’

‘Settling, Daddy?’

‘Sinking, Babe. It began sinking at the sharp end and everyone had to move down the back—’

‘Were they saved, Daddy’

‘There was nobody to go to their aid, Kid. Strangely enough the same thing happened to every other sea-going vessel in the world at the same time; all were going down, some faster than others. The Greek triremes were having a very rough time of it, such as were left; poor design and stewardship. Knut’s only hope was for them to save themselves.’

‘Poor Phed! Did they, Daddy?’

‘They stayed afloat by cunning stratagems, Child. The worst holes were of course underwater at the bows but Cranky had the crew use their battle-axes to chop the thwarts into little bits to plug them—’

‘Clever, Daddy.’

‘Yes … but it only worked until the patches were blown inwards by the overwhelming power of the sea—’

‘Then what, Daddy? Do please tell, I’m all agog.’

‘So Knut and Baen came up with another plan to bail them out and prop them up. The back end of the ship was sticking out of the water by now—’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’m going to like thi—’

‘—so they got the crew to chop pieces out of it to refill the holes in the front; which they did with all the enthusiasm generated by utter blind faith in the wisdom of their expert leaders—’

‘But Daddy! That means … … and it’s inevitable!’

‘Yes, wee Olivia; you can see that and I can see that but they couldn’t … anyway, we shall have to leave it here, my leg is going numb and it’s time for our popcorn.’

‘So we’re going to leave them sinking in a shattered hulk? Daddy, I don’t like this story after all—’

“I offered you fish, Child, but you wanted chips. And now, our coffee. You’re on popping, Poppet, don’t forget!’

KISMET

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!