Being a farmer’s wife doesn’t come naturally to me.
THIERRY MUGLER, ISSEY MIYAKI and POLO. ( no kitchen stuff )
Also EXCLUSIVE BOOKS, WOOLWORTHS and THE BODY SHOP. ( no kitchen stuff )
In short : sunglasses, jewelry, state-of-the-new-face skin care, figure-transforming clothing, home-enhancing cushions and throws and candles and smelly fragrance sticks. ( no kitchen stuff )
Arty earrings, homeopathic, eco-friendly tranquilizing aides ( read purest lavender and chamomile ) and expensive holidays for me, the farmer , our children and their nanny. I dream of the day I book 2 rooms and a flight for 5 to the Wild Coast Sun. As if that’s ever going to happen. But still. ( no kitchen stuff)
There is a definite theme coming through here.
Did you pick it up too?
NO . KITCHEN. STUFF.
Now you have to keep up with my train of thought here.
Let’s jump from NO. KITCHEN. STUFF. straight to the local Co-op.
The local Co-op is a farmer’s services hardware – type store in every small town close to a farming community. They stock all a farmer will ever need in his farming career. Feeds, bricks and poles. Paint, soil and injections. Leather boots and string. Toiletpaper and cheap sweets.
The local Co-op is a dusty place smelling of sheep.
It is a FUGLY place, believe me. And it, too, does not come naturally to me.
The fact that it doesn’t matters sweet-blue-haydiddle.
Because it is my job as the farmers’ wife to fetch stuff from the Co-op. Every single time I go to town.
It should be written in a farming couples’ marriage contract: THIS HERE WIFE SHALL VISIT THE LOCAL CO-OP 5 MILLION TIMES DURING HER LIFETIME AS THIS FARMER’S WIFE.
– She shall accept that the service will be slow.
– She shall accept that she will have to sign 3 different coloured forms for every purchase. Green, yellow and blue.
– She shall accept that she will meet other farmers at the Co-op, dressed in khaki shirts and shorts of a doubtful colour, who she will have to make small talk with. Unless she wants to be known as “that snooty wife of so-and-so ” .
– She shall accept that she will want to take a bath afterwards to get rid of the sheepy smell.
Yes, I know I’m a highly privileged person living in the wild outdoors with my rough-rider husband.
I know the Wild Coast Sun Hotel dream is extravagant to the extreme.
I know having a childminding nanny ( at times ) is heaven.
I know all of these things.
But I will remain a non-cooking frustrated shopaholic wishing for a mall.
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE
MAY THE DIOR FIND YOU