After several weeks in town, the Boss and I are back where we belong.
Cow country. The land of great open skies, fields of greenery, sweaty cow flanks, nostril obsessed flies, and soggy cow dung.
My personal version of heaven encompasses three non-negotiable things. Clouds, grass, and lots of soggy cow dung.
Hook me up with that and I’ll happily lie in the grass and cloud gaze for eternity.
The cow dung is, of course, for authenticity.
It is a well known fact, that in cow country, hurrying through life is strictly outlawed.
In cow country, dadelions have a home free from discrimination.
And the urge to run like an nun through a field and yodel at the top of your lungs about hills and the sound of music, is perfectly acceptable.
I have to curb this overpowering urge on an hourly basis. If I give in to running and leaping and yoddling through a dung-filled field, the Boss would fire me.
On account of inappropriate behaviour.
No one’s told him, in cow county, everyone does this.
He’s a bit behind the times.
But a girl can dream and there’s definately acres of scope for the imagination out there among the birds and bees.
When there’s enough clouds to send me go into a hypnotic coma, I like to dream about leaping over cow pats, belting out awe inspiring songs, doing cartwheels for joy, and embracing as many dung-producing cows as I can.
Then the kettle’s boils, the Munchkin yells, and I have to go make the Boss his cup of tea.
Reality really is a wet blanket.
xx The Girl in Trousers