Denis Lehane: I would dearly love a half dozen round bales of silage for Valentine's Day
Because of my smouldering good looks, and boyish country charms, the cards arrive early.
It's not every day I appeal to the public at large, but today I feel I'm left with little choice.
With Valentine's Day just around the corner, with it closing in faster than a contrary bull on the rampage, I feel I must put all my cards on the table.
I must put in my spoke before the madness truly begins.
Next week, the cards will be flying once again. And this craze of sending Valentine's Day cards to heartbreakers in farming has got to stop.
It's bad for the pocket and does untold damage to the environment.
In my case, because of my smouldering good looks, and boyish country charms, the cards arrive early.
Because of my fame, my intellectual brilliance, and my razor-sharp wit, they soon pile up.
Because of my love of the land and fondness for the bed, the cards don't stop.
It's embarrassing if truth be told.
Valentine's Day is a day when very little is done on this farm.
The post will arrive at first light, with the under-pressure post van struggling to make it up the lane.
With dark plumes of black smoke, with tyres spinning to an unnatural degree, the van will eventually arrive.
More often than not, a second van will be bringing up the rear.
And it upsets me greatly when the back door is cracked open and I watch bags tumble from the van.
Bags containing thousands of cards from love hungry females desperately taken with my dark brooding looks.
The mountain man, who writes like Hemingway, is a right hit with the ladies.
It's no exaggeration to say I'm as popular as Travolta. I'm as popular as molasses on wet silage.
The amount of cards I receive can sometimes take my breath away.
It's no surprise then, that I suffer from high blood pressure, and occasional bloat, when trying to deal with such an unadulterated pile of passion.
The man who invented Valentine's Day didn't consider the likes of me for a moment.
How many trees will be felled this year on my behalf?
Whole forests, I imagine, will be chopped away in an effort to produce all the cardboard needed.
Indigenous tribes the world over, have probably been sent packing over the years, as big machines with saws extended appear on the horizon.
Is it any wonder our planet is the way it is? The whole thing is insanity on a grand scale.
Anyhow, this year, in an effort to alleviate the pressure, to prevent the postal service from grinding to a halt, might I suggest we dispense with all the cards and instead give the farmer in your life something more suited to his wants and desires.
In my case, I would dearly love the gift of a half dozen round bales of silage for Valentine's Day.
Anything really, to keep the home fire burning and the round feeder popular with my bullocks.
Alas, my yard is now as bare as my hairy chest on a warm summer's day.
And with my bank balance as deflated as a defective balloon, I could do with the lift.
Cards will always be welcome, but a grab of juicy silage would be so much more romantic.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
I'm out of round bales
How about you?
