I’d had a good morning. Dressed in my city jeans, city shirt and city shoes (favourite camel JP Tods bought from the USA), city perfume, city makeup, jewelry, clean hair … you know, the sort of thing you do when you are going shopping. Not dressed up to the nines but a damn sight better than the last five months of aged shorts or farm jeans.
I went to the kitchen shop and replaced some of my aged cooking utensils, to the bathroom shop and bought new loo brushes, to the carpet shop to get samples so that we can replace our damaged carpet, to the hairdresser’s to track down Morrocan oil, to the newsagent’s to buy glue to stick down the tape that binds embroidery hoops ready for next week’s Master Classes.
Then took lunch to the farm for OH who was foot-paring today.
And that was my mistake.
He was in the farmyard close by the barn, opening gates.
‘I need your help to move the barn paddock (all paddocks have names) mob to the yards.’
‘But I haven’t got my boots.’
‘You won’t need them. Take the ute, I’ll take the four-wheeler.’
So I parked my car. Hopped out, walked daintily across damp grass looking down, seeing water stains gathering on the shoes. Sighing. Climbed up (like a rock wall for me) into the ute, and took off into the paddocks after OH. We rounded up the flock and began to drive it toward the yards … not so bad, shoes might dry, and the dust inside the ute mightn’t leave too many marks on my pale blue shirt.
Got to the yards and the mob did the time-honoured thing of stalling at the gates, thinking ‘yes, no, yes, no’ and making a break past us. Stopped them. Back to the gates. Realised that I would have to get out of ute to start making appropriate sheep-moving noise: ‘Hut, hut, hut, HO!’ Whistling, clapping hands. (The kelpie pushes with a little too much force so we only use her right inside the yards). Sighed as I jumped down onto sheep poo. Hopped from pad of grass to pad of grass, cursing OH, sheep and life. Doesn’t he realise how much I love my JP Tods? Stones, dirt, manure … gee thanks, darl!
He and the contractor began work and I took myself off home, climbing the cream carpeted stair and forgetting to look underneath my shoes to make sure they were clean.
Left a trail of sheep poo all perfectly imprinted with the JP Tod rubber stop marks.
It’s sooo lucky we’re getting new carpet!
*giggles* If it tain’t one thig it tis another…. And for some reason I sort of wish I lived ona farm, despite how I can be about not getting my hand dirty… (And I don’t really feel I”m all that girly.)
I hope your JP tod shoes puul out of it okay! :}
They don’t look too flash, Cathryn. Poo underneath won’t come off without brushing with suede brush which i have yet to try, and there is a scratch from the stones!
Noes *pout* Good luck getting them cleaned up, to at least a presentatble state. Remember no one will notice the ‘defects’ as much as you will. :}
A day in the life of a rancher. Some serious hazards there!
Do you call them farms or ranches in Oz, when you’ve got herd animals? When I moved to California from New England, I was so surprised that all farms were called ranches. Even when all they raised was avocados. When I heard the term “avocado ranch” I imagined herds of green fruit, with little feet…
Hope your shoes cleaned up OK!
BTW, I’ve left the second term Indie Chicks project too. With a book to finish that’s coming out in June, it was insane to try to make all those deadlines and learn all that complicated tech..
Farms here are called farms or properties. I have no idea why ‘properties’ because everyone who owns real estate effectively owns property, but there you go … the idiosyncracy of the Australian patois. Maybe we should call them estates. Ours of course, is called ‘the farm’, or ‘Camden’ when we’re being posh. Most farms in my state heark back to their English ancestry with names like Meadowbank, Panshanger, Norton Mandeville, Killymoon, Winton, Earlham, Burnside, Bangor… and so on.
I love the idea of the avocado ranch and you paint a quirky picture of all those little avocados hastening to the packing shed with a dog behind them!
Shoes? See above.
Indie Chicks? Such a vibrant and inspiring group of women. I would love to feed of their energy pills! My deadlines are already falling, falling, falling…
And therein lies the value of being independent. Apart from perhaps disappointing readers who by and large are immensely loyal and understanding, one can create one’s own deadlines and be flexible when OTHER life gets in the way … poo and all!
*giggles* really? I guess I never was in the right circles to have come across that interesting difference between New England and Cali… Love your image of avacados with feet – makes me think children’s book. :}
I can imagine your frustration, but also, I thoroughly enjoyed this 🙂
Thank you, Aimee. Good to see you here. As you’ve no doubt realised, Twitter and I seem to have developed only a passing acquaintance. Hope all goes well for you!
There’s something very comforting about reading blogs about your life, Prue. In a world that increasingly seems to celebrate only the glamorous, reading about someone treading sheep poo into their carpet is refreshing! Keep it up.
I feel your pain though – i live in the city but my ‘good’ shoes have barely made it out of the wardrobe this year due to the monsoonal conditions Sydney is experiencing. No wonder Australians love the rubber flip-flop! At this rate i will go straight from flip flop to gumboot and those pretty suede loafers and ballet pumps won’t see the light of day. Mind you, i am now seriously considering investing in Hunter wellies as a compromise…
Oh don’t worry. I am soo not like the glamorous bods we read about. Whilst I do love a bit of slap on the face to cover the wrinkles, I’ve lost the knack (or the interest really) of being smart since living at House up the coast.
I must try and revive some semblance of chic (albeit shabby) for a lovely evening wedding we are off to on the weekend.
I dredged out an LBD (still with tags, never worn) from the hinterland of my wardrobe and have managed to get a vaguely appropriate outfit together.
BUT … must wear heels! And the pointed toes of said shoes would do Count Fulke of Anjou proud. Was it not he who invented the pointed toe in the Middle Ages to disguise his bunions? I don’t have bunions, but I do have foot issues and the toes and heels will be a challenge of gigantic proportions. JP Tods, sheep poo and all or even your Hunter wellies would be a perfectly comfortable option!
And I’ve heard about Sydney’s rain … send some to us, we are in need. Don’t lose your brolly! Cheers.
As someone who always asked for shoes for her birthday, and then had actual nightmares about scratches appearing on them, I feel your pain, Prue.
When it comes to scrubbing up for a wedding, I would be hopeless. I have spent so long scuffing about the house in my oldest clothes, I don’t even know where the good ones are – or indeed if they will still fit me.
I hope you have a wonderful, elegant time.
Thank you Giselle, for telling me about Fulke of Anjou in the first place. And you have no idea how my feet hurt!