Manure (553)

by Max Akroyd

Tuesday is the day us country folk have to go into town to buy stuff. It seems very retrograde to go shopping at a supermarket (“so noughties”) but I’m working hard to avoid this depressing ritual in future…

The need to scrub up a bit before my Tuesday afternoon brush with civilisation means that I might as well pick the smelliest, dustiest and, well, sweatiest job possible on Tuesday morning. Not least to get the best value from the hot water. Cleaning the goat house out it was then! Six barrow-loads of soiled straw to transport to the trenches in the field. An excellent contribution!

Pigs, despite their contradictory reputations as clean and smelly are, in fact, neither. But their toilet is at least confined to a regular area which, if you clear it away every day, isn’t too offensive at all. (If you leave it to age for a few days though, it could knock your head off – which probably explains why those infernal industrial pig ‘farms’ smell so terrible). Goats -as long as they’re female – are altogether less stinky, but have a more scatter gun approach to relieving themselves. Hence the necessity for a monthly clear out (unfortunate choice of words) of their quarters.

Upshot is: the goats, the pigs and their owner are all slightly more presentable this afternoon than they were this morning. But only the most intelligent of them, the veritable pinnacle of evolution, is going to trudge around a supermarket buying food made and sold by other equally evolved beings who would also much rather be doing something else.