Billy the Goat got into the feed shed the other day and devoured at least two kilograms of Wild Bird Mix. It’s not the fact he just helped himself, and now looks like he swallowed a soccer ball, but it is the after-effects that worry me. Ever since eating the bird seed he has been experiencing some sort of trip.
It even happens with the sheep. If some bird seed accidentally spills on the ground as I’m dispensing it into my patented high-enough, non-tipable, tree mounted bird-feeder (An old glass ashtray jammed into the fork of a nearby tree) Bill and all the sheep start fighting over the spoils. They will butt heads and generally hassle each other for the honour of rubbing their noses in the dirt to vacuum up bird seed.
Bill however, upon catching sight of one or two lonely seeds in the shed, will flick his tongue (a-la-K.I.S.S) through the gap between the floor and wall of the shed and slobber up every single seed within reach. He will also nudge the tin wall to get in closer. It’s a bit off-putting watching a little pink wet thing French kissing the cracks in the wall. I’m worried. Are bird seeds a drug, a kind of ‘marriage-a-wanna’?
What got me onto this subject was a conversation I had with a long-term resident about Blow-ins. Apparently a blow-in is anyone who was NOT BORN IN THE TOWN (or arrived here before the death of Queen Victoria). There are contradictions of course. You cease to be a Blow-in if you marry a Certified Local. What he could not answer was ‘If two Blow-ins have a baby, is that baby then a Local?’
Anyway this person claimed that there were no drugs before the Blow-ins came to town. No crime, no wife-bashing and certainly no disrespect for the Constabulary. I argued that there have always been drugs in every town. How many hotels did the area have in it’s good days? Cigarettes? What about the blokes on Viagra?
My friend could not accept the fact that drugs and drug use are not confined to us City-slickers or Blow-ins. I’m no gambler (the last time I played a Poker Machine it had a handle on it and took Pennies) but I’d bet a considerable sum of money (say a quid) if anyone could prove that NO LOCAL has ever taken drugs.
There are pills and potions for going to sleep and getting up, suppressing our appetite or getting it going, slowing us down, speeding us up, making us happy and calming us down.
“Want a mood? Here take this”.
I am not advocating the use, growing or the sale of any drug illicit or legal, but I do object to sweeping statements such as ‘Locals don’t use drugs’.
On another subject. I must also make mention that a little birdie told me (or that’s all I’m saying) that the reason many of the recognised true Locals do not participate in anything around town is because they are supposedly sick of all the Blow-Ins telling them what they need to do for the town to stay alive, to attract new residents who are preferably younger than Moses, promote tourism and hence new or more successful businesses.
OK so some of us ‘newbies’ do participate on committees that are about as progressive as a Barn Dance, mixing and matching ideas and activities that eventually lead you back to where you started but we are alive and kicking at least. I for one want to participate in the life of the town and not just to sit in a corner and rust away, or only walk as far as needed to peek through the gaps in the lace curtains. I refuse to do-se-do myself into a grave.
Tribalism has gone the same way as the Flat Earth Society. A Local to me is anyone who has made a commitment to the town, has bought into the town, supports local business or contributes to the community. It is not someone who barricades themselves inside a fortress and throws rocks at passing strangers yelling ‘begone ye debils’.
That reminds me of a conversation I had with my relocationists over moving my house onto the block.
“What day would you like to move?”
“4th November”, I said.
“Why that date?” he questioned.
“That’s the ‘Back to Linton Festival Day”,
I replied.
“Is that significant?” he asked.
“Well they will most likely have a Parade and I could decorate the moving house with balloons and bolster up the show as it came through town”.
He laughed quite loudly. “Fat chance’ he said, “The parade’s been called off. The only Girl Guide has gone off on a camp”.
GODFREY ZONE
It even happens with the sheep. If some bird seed accidentally spills on the ground as I’m dispensing it into my patented high-enough, non-tipable, tree mounted bird-feeder (An old glass ashtray jammed into the fork of a nearby tree) Bill and all the sheep start fighting over the spoils. They will butt heads and generally hassle each other for the honour of rubbing their noses in the dirt to vacuum up bird seed.
Bill however, upon catching sight of one or two lonely seeds in the shed, will flick his tongue (a-la-K.I.S.S) through the gap between the floor and wall of the shed and slobber up every single seed within reach. He will also nudge the tin wall to get in closer. It’s a bit off-putting watching a little pink wet thing French kissing the cracks in the wall. I’m worried. Are bird seeds a drug, a kind of ‘marriage-a-wanna’?
What got me onto this subject was a conversation I had with a long-term resident about Blow-ins. Apparently a blow-in is anyone who was NOT BORN IN THE TOWN (or arrived here before the death of Queen Victoria). There are contradictions of course. You cease to be a Blow-in if you marry a Certified Local. What he could not answer was ‘If two Blow-ins have a baby, is that baby then a Local?’
Anyway this person claimed that there were no drugs before the Blow-ins came to town. No crime, no wife-bashing and certainly no disrespect for the Constabulary. I argued that there have always been drugs in every town. How many hotels did the area have in it’s good days? Cigarettes? What about the blokes on Viagra?
My friend could not accept the fact that drugs and drug use are not confined to us City-slickers or Blow-ins. I’m no gambler (the last time I played a Poker Machine it had a handle on it and took Pennies) but I’d bet a considerable sum of money (say a quid) if anyone could prove that NO LOCAL has ever taken drugs.
There are pills and potions for going to sleep and getting up, suppressing our appetite or getting it going, slowing us down, speeding us up, making us happy and calming us down.
“Want a mood? Here take this”.
I am not advocating the use, growing or the sale of any drug illicit or legal, but I do object to sweeping statements such as ‘Locals don’t use drugs’.
On another subject. I must also make mention that a little birdie told me (or that’s all I’m saying) that the reason many of the recognised true Locals do not participate in anything around town is because they are supposedly sick of all the Blow-Ins telling them what they need to do for the town to stay alive, to attract new residents who are preferably younger than Moses, promote tourism and hence new or more successful businesses.
OK so some of us ‘newbies’ do participate on committees that are about as progressive as a Barn Dance, mixing and matching ideas and activities that eventually lead you back to where you started but we are alive and kicking at least. I for one want to participate in the life of the town and not just to sit in a corner and rust away, or only walk as far as needed to peek through the gaps in the lace curtains. I refuse to do-se-do myself into a grave.
Tribalism has gone the same way as the Flat Earth Society. A Local to me is anyone who has made a commitment to the town, has bought into the town, supports local business or contributes to the community. It is not someone who barricades themselves inside a fortress and throws rocks at passing strangers yelling ‘begone ye debils’.
That reminds me of a conversation I had with my relocationists over moving my house onto the block.
“What day would you like to move?”
“4th November”, I said.
“Why that date?” he questioned.
“That’s the ‘Back to Linton Festival Day”,
I replied.
“Is that significant?” he asked.
“Well they will most likely have a Parade and I could decorate the moving house with balloons and bolster up the show as it came through town”.
He laughed quite loudly. “Fat chance’ he said, “The parade’s been called off. The only Girl Guide has gone off on a camp”.
GODFREY ZONE
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