And my missus too was adamant that I conduct myself. But I carried on regardless of the women who surrounded me. I can be a damn fool sometimes.
Yes, I stared at the sun last Friday morning for the duration of the eclipse, curiosity getting the better of me. And by the finish I was left with the eyesight of Mr Magoo. I could see nothing.
So, for the rest of the day, I took to the bed, in the hope that a bit of shuteye might be the cure. Of course, many fellows would say that a productive farmer like me has no business spending his day in bed, especially when there is work to be done outside. But the beauty about me is that I’m never idle, even when in bed asleep.
The mind is always working, conjuring up new ways of achieving success in farming. Even with the duvet up around my neck, I’m working. And on Friday afternoon, I dreamed up the greatest scheme of all, a scheme that will really get the money rolling in.
I’m returning to milking. Let me explain.
When April 1 arrives, a new era will dawn. The abolition of milk quotas will create a golden opportunity for former milking greats, like myself, to make a bold and triumphant return to the milking arena. And how I propose to do this was dreamt up under the duvet on Friday.
Last year while attending a mart, I came across a young heifer that the auctioneer announced had no possibly of ever being bred. On account of her being a half twin, she was as cheap as chips and, ever a man to spot a bargain, I purchased her.
Now during the intervening time, this heifer has, believe it or not, come into the family way. Yerra, ’twas the bullock with one testicle did the damage, I’m sure. He wouldn’t give a tinker’s curse about what the auctioneer said.
Anyhow, to make a long story short, the heifer is in calf. The experts were proved wrong. And what’s more, didn’t I buy five more heifers last year, and who’s to say that the bullock didn’t work his magic on all of them?
I could well have half a dozen cows in the making. Then, of course, there’s the business of milking.
Sadly my old milking machine isn’t what it used to be, with the passage of time it has all but seized. And I fear any attempt at restarting it might be a bit like trying to re-float the Titanic. It could prove to be the costly affair.
The way I saw it, in bed on Friday, because of my current financial situation, the cheapest option would be to ignore the milking machine altogether, and go back to basics. What I mean is, within the grasp of every man, women and child is the greatest milking machine of all.
A mighty yoke that doesn’t need rubbers replaced each year. It’s called the hand. And it was used for millions of years before we got grand notions of convoluted milking machines.
I’ll milk my six cows by hand, and the only equipment I’ll need will be a sturdy three-legged stool, a bucket, and an old vest to assist in the proper filtration of the milk.
With my six cows and nimble fingers at the ready, I declare to heaven, ’tis how I’ll be a millionaire in no time at all. I think it’s fair to say, I’ve finally seen the light.