….let there be shopping….

Archive for the tag “Farmer”




Being a farmer’s wife doesn’t come naturally to me.

What comes to me naturally is shopping for GUESS, LANCOME, DIOR, CLARINS and LA PRAIRIE. ( no kitchen stuff )

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?


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.

And more:

– 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.



Click to show "sheep fashion" result 5



Went to the Big City yesterday. ( East London, South Africa. Not East of London LONDON, England. Sadly. )

Going to The Big City is A Big Deal if you live on a farm in the sticks,  120 km from civilization. Or rather,  it is A Big Deal if you’re a  deprived shopaholic  married to a farmer.

The farmer would prefer never going to The Big City. He would prefer to stay on his farm and farm. This is a lesson I never learn.

But lets ignore him for now. Lets get back to the city girl living 120 km from civilization Going To The Big City.

For her there is the week BEFORE Going To The Big City. ( ” We are going to have such a good time! I’ll finally FINALLY find the one elusive piece of clothing that will shave 20 kgs off my butt! And we’ll find a great place to eat! And the kids will have fun ! And hubby will relax! And…..! )

There is the actual Day In The Big City. ( “Why can I never find anything I like? WHY did I bring a farmer shopping? He couldn’t be more miserable if he tried.”)

And then there’s the trip back from the Day in The Big City. ( ” Oh heavens alive. I look like hell. Time to up the exercise! Get fit! Get toned! Get thin! And time to ban farmers and children under 5 from malls. In fact, there should be bouncers at all entrances of all malls denying farmers and children access. I am never, NEVER taking the whole family to The Big City again. EVER.” )

And a month or so goes by.

And another trip to The Big City starts looming. ( “We are going to have such a good time!……………….”)


 ( ps. this is NOT my husband. This is how much my husband loves his farm. )

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