Shhh! Scribbler at Work

Top o' the Mornin'

(prompt: 'early' 16/3/2018)

Way before the first sun of the first morning of the New Year peeped over the collar of the world, I was up milking cows. In truth, I'd never gone to bed since the year finished. When all the other party-goers faded as sensible folk tend to do, I chose to milk our cows alone. Every. Single. New Year's morning.

Not for me the sweet seduction of bed for a few hours and then up and at 'em. When I finally and fully retired, I planned many dedicated hours of R&R, comfortable in the self-righteous glow of having gone above and beyond the call of duty already this year.

It all sounded so easy in the euphoria and after-glow of the late, late night and no real chore at all to peel off my finery and crawl into my truly 'glam' stuff - overalls, beanie and rubber boots - in the early, early morning.

Getting our girls in from the paddock was no bind by bright moonlight or with an invaluable searching torch beam some darker mornings. The cows entered into the novelty of this pre-dawn happening; never known to object to an early morning call promising to break up a boring night. After all, they hadn't partied.

All went well - for a while. I even found time for a momentary fantasy of a triumphant walk back home, with the first of the 700+ milkings of the year out of the way, done and dusted! I walked beneath a romantic, mystical archway through my own 'Secret Garden'. Melodious bird songs competed with scents of sweetest blossoms for dominance of my senses. Delicate rays of the New Year's first sun filtered through shady green trees, a soft breeze whispered through the boughs, caressing my face, delighting my heart and soul with the joy of being alive - part of Nature's amazing charms—

But in the flick of a tail, things went out of whack. Stinking Gertrude - or one of her sisters in crime - nearly got me somewhere unpleasant when she tried to kick the cups away. Just ducking to avoid her lethal aim could put several important body bits all but out of commission.

"Bitch!" I muttered, trying valiantly to hold onto the evaporating dream. The time frame began to change, dragging painfully now as if in slow-mo. Abruptly I'd find myself counting the cows still waiting outside, and strain my ears over the throbbing and wheezing of the milking machine to hear the time on the radio in between blaring out the girl's favourite easy listening music. Surely another half hour had passed without me noticing? P-l-e-a-s-e, I begged fervently.

Cleaning down milking cups, flushing milk lines and machine AND taking much of it apart were relatively welcome chores - signifying the end was nigh. An aching body was screaming for it to be over. What HAD I been thinking of?  And myself had no plausible excuse, except over-indulgence at the party and uhrr, a death wish, surely? But the ultimate worst was still to come. The concrete holding yard waited to be cleaned down, AND inside the dairy.

I'm sure you'll excuse me if I don't go there this time around?