Well well well... what an interesting turn of events this week.
Firstly the new 'regime' is going well. For those of you that I haven't had the pleasure of my life being shoved in your face (along with some spit and a slight hint of garlic) I am house-sitting in the deep deep south at the moment. South AUCKLAND that is... in the hills above the quiet, quaint and multicultural suburb of Papakura - nooo I'm not scared at all. I'm a hard-arse Westie for goodness sake and lets face it - I'm glad its not fricken Horrenderson then I'd be really screwed.
What a regime it has been.
Sidenote for dummies: Regime ("RAY-GEEM")... A regime to me is like the list of necessities.
For men - simple: Shit. Shave. Shower. Done-burger.
For women... Cleanse, tone, moisturise, wax, pluck, shave, colour, exfoliate, squeeze, suck, burn, bronze, file, paint, irrigate, bleach, bleed, iron, nip, tuck, f.... aaaar out and that's all before brekkie. No wonder we're a stroppy wee bunch. Meh.
Well grab that list and add: A horny goat, shrek-the-sheep's twin sisters, a depressed dog, two freaky cats, a psycho parrot, a bunch of funky chickens and a couple of huge cocks into the mix and we got a party goin' onnnn.
Throw in the delightfully damp July/August Auckland spring weather, mud up to me delicates, a dead tree, a dumb gate and lots and lots of animal poos and you have my life right now as a lifestyle block fake farmer.
Moved in Friday and settled in for 10-day stint... much like the weather pattern. Saturday wasn't too bad with the exception of a very depressed K-9 - highly unimpressed at my appearance instead of her beloved humans who are currenlty laxing-out, animal-free in swim-up bars on an island in the warm pacific the pathetic losers.
Sunday brought rain, wind, cold and a surprise challenge. I was sitting in front of the telly when something to the left of me caught my eye out the window... it was a big old tree... falling... in slow motion... right across the driveway toward the house. Landing (luckily and without damage) on the concrete, its impact softened by the hedge. Far out that was freaky, big tree, impressive crash. Hang on a minute... where's the driveway gone? Aww, shit.
"F*ck." (I say to noone imparticular except the psycho parrot, two cats, depressed dog, Ganny the Goat, the Cocks and Henny Pennys)... "Umm. Right. Okay. WOT...TF?!!" Yes it was certainly a capitals moment thats for sure. Thar it still be me hearties, that felled twig, layin dead and blocking th' feckin driveway. I found a couple of chainsaws but couldn't for the life of me find some extra balls to use them. So I sucked it up and texted my brother, told him not to panic because he'd drop his pino colada in the pool (which would be sacriledge) but could he please call as I have a wee tree situ. He called and oh how we laughed. The bastard. I offered to get in the abourist but he said not to worry - he'd handle it when he got back... okie dokie.
So if you are wondering why every morning I have moss under my fingernails... blame the tree for ruining my nice, smooth exit. I'm now heaving a dirty old wooden gate open and shut twice a day so I can actually escape the property - mind the heavy chain hanging off it for no apparent reason or duty...it has an uncanny ability to slam you in the shin when you're not looking.
Now before I go on I have to say that being here is in fact a delight... it is a lovely spot, quiet and private and I feel really safe and relaxed but... (and knowing me as you do my lovely blogees - I've got big buts and I cannot lie, I always share my buts... its the 'but' that makes the story you see - I'm always the 'butt' of my jokes, its how I roll here in CETV and its usually MY but that is freakin hilarious...hahahaha... oh bollix.. where was I?) Oh yeah... peaceful, tranquil, semi-rural beautiful rolling hills and plush green bush surroundings but...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.01am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time check: 4.02am
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
And so on and so forth...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.44am
BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..BRR..!!! Alarm...
Time Check 5.45am following imediately by... you guessed it...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check 5.46am. Ace.
We skip forward about 12 hours to:
Arrive home from work...
COCK-A DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Time Check: 5.30pm
And of course there's TWO of them Hugh Chookner and his sleezy sidekick Ron the Rooster... so they have some sort of weird cocky-doodley battle going on - its like a couple of crazy 80's rock-opera singers screeching themselves to oblivion on 'The Voice - Old MacDonald's Farm Special'. And they do it ALL DAY - hmmm... I thought cocks just woke you up in the mornings?
(I didn't mean it to sound that way. Well actually yes I did... lets face it, I'm the only one that actually THOUGHT of it that way... welcome to my world - how's the gutter life treating you? Sit yo' ass down on a copy of "50 Shades" and stay awhile why don't you?)
Anyway its not just a couple of cocks that are ruling my world right now.
So here's the drill right? My new regime. My farming schedule:
- I wake up around 5.45am (I know I know, real farmers get up at 3... suck it I'm just a ring in...)
- Pee
- Sneeze (HAS to be IN. THAT. ORDER or I'll end up the subject of one of those really inappropriate feminine product ads they play right on teatime...)
- Shower etc... (see above sidenote for unedited version of events)
- Dress - fully. Office attire on weekdays... (dressing gown on weekends - double knotted... don't want those flirty cocks thinkin' there's anything interesting to peck on...)
- Put on thick socks, dressing gown, beanie, gumboots (adopted Robe-over-office-attire on weekdays - its the closest thing to a raincoat okay and it repels splashy mud poos. Geez this isn't NZ's next top model... yet)
- Walk precariously down knee deep mud paddocks in the pitch black of a stormy morning balancing goat nuts (no... stop it), chicken feed, bunch of bok choy, torch and recently - umbrella while somehow staying vertical on uneven and unstable terrain. ( I know I know real farmers have oil skins... well I have girl skin and hair that is really REALLY easily fucked up by the slightest amount of moisture so brollie it is - if you can FIND a freakin oil skin then be my guest and hook a girl up...)
- feed goat - keeping an eye on massive horns at all times - hopefully arse padding will suffice if hungry goats attack...(actually Ganny the Goat is quite a sweetie and answers when you call...plus she has a MASSIVE belly... in actual fact I FEEL like NZ's Next Top Model next to her even in 14 layers of clothing...)
- slosh my way over to the chicken coop... pitch black... lots of flapping and squawking goin' on... a big cock at the front door fluffing up his feathers and bleating at me (Cut to flashback scene: hilarious reminder of the long adolescent nights at 'Timbucktoo' Nightclub in the 80's - 17, naive, big-haired and madeup-to-the-nines (and tens!), charming my way past the poser bouncers with their big chests and flexed cannons. Sad but true and I'll have you know for free it is my belief that we don't have enough nightclubs in malls anymore... great parking, close to the bus stop).
So in I go... squelching through the pooey smelly chicky coop...in the dark, knowing that there are spiderwebs as thick as French armpit hair above me and I might have to stick my hand under a chooks arse to pinch the eggs she so lovingly squeezed out her crappy pooper just for me to nick off with.
Have I mentioned that I'm not a huge fan of birds? I think they are lovely and pretty and can make cool tweety noises but when they flap around my head like that scene with the crow in 'The Omen' I totally soil myself. So being all cheery and calling "Hey Chookies!" as I entered the dark damp spidery cave of feathered shit... was an epic fail. It was a 'chicknami'... waves of feathers and clucks and cocks comin at me from all directions I literally pulled a slippery U'ee in my gummies and gapped it the fark outta there. Yep totally shat myself just saying hello to the chooks. Doin' ma job... rockin the redbands and what do I get for it? Skidmarks.
The chook house is kind of like the playboy mansion... for chickens. There's Hugh Chookner - the alpha-cock that bosses everyone around, the other cock who's got a bit of a wonky crow so is the underdog wingman with a slighty deviate side...Ron the Rooster. And then there's the Desperate Cluckwives who seem to just eat and cluck and scrap - one of whom seems to be spittin eggs out like bum wees. She must be Hugh's number one - shes a great layer. (hehehe - oh come on that was gold)
They have quite the life those chooks and their regime is simple but impressive. Like a little family really with slightly questionable hygiene practices. Hugh stands at the entrance to the chookhouse and crows like a regiment bugle at sundown and all the chookies fall in to roost for the night - I think Ron tucks them all in (hence his name Ron "the Rooster") while Hugh keeps guard at the door. They have free range... to wander and roam the day away, they eat off the ground and poo wherever they damn well please.
Hmm... I think - metophorically - that I too am embracing a little chicken dance of my own out here... and despite the challenges it is quite cathartic... except I don't poo on the deck and I do mostly prefer a plate. Don't hate me 'coz I'm human...
Like me, the array of animals out here have dynamic personalities... I've touched on the chooks and the goat - its amazing how much you learn about them even though you only hang out for about 15 seconds in the dark each morning. You have to know that my big brother (the owner of said property) and chief farmer is somewhat of an 'animal whisperer' known famously for his deep love for all things furry, feathery and farmy - the difference is he would bend over backwards and give his life savings to try and save an animal as opposed to the more rugged method of those that have a few thousand more of each species not just a wee handful. He's a good man with a big heart full of fur after years of ingesting it through his lungs :-). Let me introduce you to the rest of gang:
Ganny the Goat and the two baa-lambs chill out down the bottom paddock, hangin out, eating grass and pooing. That's about it. But they do come running up to you which tells me they quite like their wee daily visit from the 'hooman beans' and they don't shy away from a bit of a pat on the head which is nice. Warm and smelly.
Quite often Hugh Chookner, Ron and a few of the Desperate Cluckwives go hang with Ganny... probably pinchin her food, teasing her about her big hairy belly and then running off into the bush before they become a rotisserie on her horns when she gets pissed off with their bullshit. I know when they are down there because there's a whole lotta ruckus going on - clucks and crows and baa's and crashing through bushes... poor Ganny... its like livin' in the animal projects, buried in the South Auckland Bronx.
We got John the cat... who licks his willy a fair bit. His favourite grooming spot is on top of the printer in full view, just under the heat pump in the living room. If you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, it's just John-John, burning the midnite oil... sending some faxes, keeping in touch. He's quite regal, typical tommy with an attitude... I bet he's had a lot of pussy.
Now Possum... the other feline, is an orphan... deserted by a family of kids that kind of just left her behind when they were staying there... so she's got some abandonment and trust issues. Funny little cat. Skittish, runs away from you like you're a Rottweiler then comes up meowing for a cuddle and then its an all claws attack. Bitch. Likes to sleep in drawers and only drinks the water out of your glass on the nightstand... word of warning - watch out for hairballs.
AJ or is it BJ? I dunno. Its a parrot that spends a majority of its time hiding inside an icecream container. It comes out every so often to screech... and I've become pretty fluent in undersanding parrot.... it goes like this a bit
"Shhh! Don't look at me! ARGH! CAT! Fark off! DON'T TALK TO ME! I'm lonely! ARGH! Who's there? What's that? ARGH shadow! Shh! I'm not home! Mmm, seed, nom nom nom".
Yep that's pretty much word-for-screech. When I lean closer to the cage and peer in through the little bird-sized door in the icecream container all I can see is this crazy black and white eye staring at me... quite wild looking...like Jigsaw's eyes from "Saw". Freaky-deaky little bird.
And finally we have the original member of the clan - Meg, the 7-year old brindle who speaks when spoken to and farts like a bloke. The lovely Meg who indeed is the man's best friend and has literally taken 5 days to get over herself and stop moping at her owners' deserting her. We had a little chat the other day... before I went off to work. I told her to harden up, stop being a sookie bubba and that she wasn't to worry, that I'd be back later that day AND she's lucky she's not stuck out in suburbia with her nut case sister dog in a back yard in the miserable pouring rain all day. She's got her bed, and the chooks and cats to keep her company AND she gets to sleep inside in the warmies from the minute I get home... suffice it to say she was wagging her tail and barking for joy when I arrived home that night :-)
So... I think it is safe to say that Old MacDonald can retire a happy man - along with Farmer Brown - in some worn old sheep-shearers shack, full of character, eating porridge off a coal range while talkin' tractor trash, barn dances, Sheilas, and hay days. Yeah no worries - I've got this :-)
Good on ya mate...
Farmer Stylz... in da (chook) HOWWWWWSSSSE!
Baa.
xoxoxox
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