Farming Kenroy

I’m a farmer. I know I’m a farmer because I have the keys to the bakkie and instructions on how to run a dairy. The instructions were flung at me along with the keys as the car taking Des to Jan Smuts airport roared off: They were late for their departure to Harare and on to Mana Pools on the Zambesi. Written instructions? No, shouted instructions. The ten-second short course.
O-kay! Let’s see: What did I get wrong? Ran out of feed for the cows, bought the wrong feed at the mill, had to go back and change it; Had a cow get stuck in labour with a breech calf (had to phone Kai to come up from Bergville to sort that out); Had the farmhands look at me in amusement once they realised just how little I knew; Had King realise he had a novice on his back when I took him for a daily ride;
What did I get right? Well, I ate breakfast every morning. Quite well. Gilbert presented me with a plate with one egg, one rasher of bacon and one slice of toast, arranged identically on the plate each morning at 6am sharp. That I was good at.

Author: bewilderbeast

It's about life, marriage, raising kids and travel in Africa . . . re-posting thoughts written over decades - at random, I'm afraid.

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