Pig farmers' Christmas

It’s September and the pigs are snuffling and nosing the soft spring dirt.

“Are you taking Christmas orders yet? We were too late last year.”

“Almost… we're not quite organised yet.”

It’s October (pigs are still snuffling) and the enquiries are increasing.

“Can you put us down for a ham? Are you taking orders yet?”

Alright. I give in: let’s open the floodgates.

It’s November and the orders are flowing like grain from the silos.

“Guy, when are we going to stop taking orders? How many pigs have we got?

“Guy, I want to have some spare. We missed out on a ham for ourselves last year.”

Guy stares at the paddock and stares at the spreadsheet.

And stares again at the paddock and again at the spreadsheet.

I think he grunted.

It’s December. Already.

What if we don’t have enough pigs? What if we lose an order? What if we lose two orders?

How many hams? How many hams? How many hams?

Bone-in, bone-out, half, whole, she’s having a charcuterie pack – with ham, no, without – three gourmet barbeque packs please, with an extra kilo of scotch, did you write that order down from the man who rang last night? What man?

I’m tired.

I’m more tired than you.

I’m wearing odd socks. I’m eating sausages for tea. Not sausages and mashed potato with gravy, just sausages.

I’m shocked when I see my arm muscles in the mirror. You don’t need a gym membership when you’ve got hams to hang.

Five days till Christmas.

           

So early this morning I sat outside on Cyril’s bed facing east and listened.

Cockatoos, roosters, crows, bush birds that I will learn the names of, one day.

And sleepy, snuffling pigs.