It was part way through herding my pet pig Dotty, who had decided to make a Great Escape style departure from the farm one lunchtime, that I stood amongst the chaos, hands on hips and puffing like I’d just raced Usain Bolt rather than a 10 month old pig, when I thought to myself, “you honestly couldn’t write this s**t!”
Actually, in relation to how I got here exactly, the thought process of “perhaps I could write this s**t, but it would be wholly unrelatable”, was at the point when I had gotten all 200kg of the obstinate bitch back in her sty, having broken my broom handle on her somewhat sizeable arse, after a morning of writing equally sizeable cost proposals to one of the world’s biggest financial entities. Talk about a day of two extremes!
Now, “I’ve broken the broom on my pig”, is a sentence that no self-respecting city girl ever grows up thinking they are going to have to explain to their (rightfully) perplexed husband on a Tuesday night, but there I was at 32 years old realising that maybe I’m not so much your stereotypical city girl anymore, but equal parts Cosmopolitan (yes, we still drink them) and Country Bumpkin all at once – and that’s a pretty niche lifestyle to be living, let’s be honest.
I was born and raised a city girl, so you can forgive me for thinking, “none of my home friends have to put up with this crap” whilst I’m wrestling said pig out of the neighbouring farm’s field, complete with a heard of dairy cows and their newborn calves. I honestly made a tackle that Johnny Wilkinson would have been proud of just to stop that cowbag from wreaking more havoc than a toddler let loose on a dessert buffet.
Let me give you some back story. I spent my youth either visiting the big smoke or practising my ballet at the dancing studios that my mum enrolled me in at the age of 5, when she found out I was going to be the lanky child and needed some air of decorum/grace instilled in me.
It was at the age of 16 that I discovered ponies, swapped my ballet shoes for a pair of wellies and decided that country air wasn’t all that bad. Thereafter I spent my weekends as a young adult at different equestrian events around the country, and it was at one of these that I met my (then) future husband almost 7 years ago.
Having said that, I still lived on the outskirts of the city until I was 29, before finally plucking up the courage and taking the plunge to move 100 miles west to Bumpkinshire (aka Wiltshire) and live with a smelly farmer.
Even now, I still have my typical “townie” job that keeps me in London twice a week, and I still get that buzz like I’m meeting an exiting old friend for some more adventures when I step off the tube. Withdrawal symptoms from happy hour cocktails are apparently a real thing…
So, having relayed a lengthier, more elaborate version of previous events to a few friends and colleagues, three of them mentioned that I should start a blog.
I dismissed it entirely for about a month, but I found I kept revisiting it in my mind, and now here I am – £36 down and having spent far too long deciding on a background colour than is healthy for a woman with a limited lunch hour who values food immensely – explaining to you why it’s worth you reading about my relatively unrelatable life…
I can’t promise there will be many times that any of you say “YES! That is so me!” but I hope that this outlet will allow me to amuse you when regaling stories that no one could think were possibly true, but could only happen to me.
Until next time!