Waiting is no laughing matter; just ask our sheep ladies.
As their tummies get bigger and even bigger and (cue Chandler Bing) Can they GET any bigger (certainly in the case of new flock matriarch, Ivy) they sit and wait, and stand and wait, and eat and wait, and there’s not a lot of guffawing to be had. Once the lambs are here and fate has been realised, then instinct will kick in, the paddock mood will relax, and life will have a bit of bounce again. But for now…oh, it’s all very serious.
Of course, not being privy to the insides of our flocks heads, I’m not sure what prompts this solemnity or even if we human Homesteaders are using our love of categorising everything to interpret what is simply mild-mannered, pre-birthing rest and rumination as a worry filled, anxious, nailbiting wait. Let’s face it, that’s what we’re doing.
But at least we know we’re doing it; that’s half the battle, right? And as we agonise over whether this is the lambing we end up with our arms lubed up ala James Herriot, or what we thought was lamb was simply shoddy Lifestylers over feeding, we have been talking a lot about what makes us laugh. I mean us as humans rather than us personally. Maybe you should make a pot of tea…this may get a bit deep.
Take Monty Python for example. I can see the humour (albeit dated and probably (most definitely) un PC) in The Lumberjack Song for example, but it doesn’t reduce me to the tear-spurting, thigh slapping paroxysms of mirth I’ve witnessed over the years in those around me. My little brother, he of the Dover Division, spent a good segment of his teenage years (to my recollection) conversing entirely as a member of the Gumby family and our resident Engineer was very taken with the Dead Parrot skit (“The palindrome of bolton would be notlob“). Farm Girl has now discovered the Pythons (thanks Netflix);
even mention of the Batley Townswomen’s Guild reinacting The Battle of Pearl Harbour renders her unable to speak (I worry about her breathing) for at least five minutes. I don’t want to delve too deeply into this as I fear it’ll boil down to intelligence…and that won’t look great for me.
Tim Minchin is another case in point. I love him. He can be irreverent, rude, opinionated, foul-mothed, crass… and I can overlook all of that because he comes across as being very real, his music is very, very clever, and his lyrics makes me belly laugh. He was recently in Christchurch and a Homestead contingent were very excited to secure seats.
A word must be said about these seats as he performed in my favourite Christchurch venue, the Town Hall Auditorium, and we got my absolute favourite seats in the house (no, I’m not sharing where they are because they’re mine!) so before he pattered, bare foot, onto the stage it was already a good night. He didn’t disappoint; I howled with laughter throughout the evening, in fact, I annoyed myself because I missed some wonderful lines because of it, and some of the material I laughed at doesn’t put me in a very good light. Hmmmm…
All this laughing has helped while away some pretty scary, large scale waiting; but on Friday it was over
Oh the sleepless nights, the worries, the what-ifs… and our wonderful girl returned from her day with a smile, a wordfind, a coloured-in butterfly, some pretty cool knowledge about rust, a page and a half of copied information in a subject she’s not actually taking
and some pretty hilarious stories.