I have terrified a faceless cold caller so much with the story of my life he actually took pity on me and it was him who ended the call.
One of the many lucky recipients of the Australian Bureau of Statistics Farm Census forms again this year, I got halfway through the nifty online survey when I got stumped on irrigation acreage. I would not have a clue. I know exactly how many steps it is to get to the end of each bay (so I can tell how much further the water has to go when it is too dark to see the end and I have been left alone on the farm with the dodgy torch), I learnt the hard way exactly how many turns of the wheel to open the outlet at the turkey's nest dam to deliver the optimum amount of water to keep channels high but not over-flowing. And I can even tell which bay I am meant to shut off, if instructions are unclear. But to convert that to anything that would mean something to anyone but me is easier said than done.
Every spring I feel young again. But it's not because of the renewed sense of life from the emerging season. Or even increased endorphins from the extra hours of sunlight. No, nothing so wholesome. It's because I suddenly start staying up really late, racing to finish work I should have had done ages ago, crashing on the couch because bed is just too far away from the office and existing on coffee. Basically, I revert back to the me of uni days. I don't feel particularly young but spring is so busy I have to adopt the habits of when I was young.
It's like a breath of fresh air when a group of country women get together for a rare night out.
Because it can be an infrequent occurrence, and it takes a fair amount of commitment to get there, in terms of both organisation and distance, people seem to deliver the same commitment to enjoying the outing.
And, yet another thing I love about the country and a country ladies' night out, age just doesn't seem to be an issue.
Another bout of wet weather has been gratefully received at our place this week, with just over half an inch shoring up the season against another creeping dry. Scattered rain over the past 10 days has in many locations been lifesaving for cropping farmers hoping to actually get two years' harvest in a row.
My love for my adopted home town started with a black board.
When I was a young rural journalist, the Hay Sheep Show was one of the biggest days (or possibly it was the night which was the attraction) on my social calendar.
Every day we cross another day off the calendar and realise this year of sunshine, of seasonal plenty and of respite after years of drought and stress, is almost over.
We measure our year by farm events and by our sheep breeding calendar, as much as we do the 'real' calendar. We are driven by financial imperatives as much as by lifestyle, so there are three "New Year" events for us – the calendar new year, the new financial year and, for me, the start of the ram selling season.
Unloading cattle on a freezing morning, a big night time bonfire, looking at emus, getting bogged.
The memories of the country/city collision had almost receded until we looked through photos as we got ready for school "news" this week.
We've been through a lot with our favourite livestock transport truck driver. But I am not at all keen on hearing from him some time around 3am tonight when he arrives with a final load of sheep from relatives "out west".
My ever-obliging husband has told Dave the truck driver he is happy to unload any time. Just ring when you get here. (Although I have noticed the same husband never seems quite so eager to be up when it is the baby issuing the wake-up call.)
But the real question here is probably more about how on earth one even acquires a favourite livestock transporter.
My youthful days of wallowing in an afternoon at the art gallery, enjoying twilight opera in the park performances and immersing myself in the indie music scene, are so long gone I can't even remember them.
Who would have thought a few loads of gravel and a grader were the stuff dreams were made of.
