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.
