I have pondered the title question quite a bit over the last couple of years. Why would anyone want to hear the shit that comes out of my mouth? But over the last few months Facebook seems to be showing me lots of farmers wives blog links and OMG I am so fed up with reading about the idyllic lives of these women who live in massive listed houses, dressed in expensive tweed and leather boots etc. This dear readers is not real life. Quite often these are the farm owners wives who have very little to do on the farm. Real life for the workers wives means that we always stink, never wear decent clothes (not much point as we are always on call to stand in a gateway or feed calves among other things) and very rarely see our husbands. So I thought I would settle the score and even things out a bit.
Who am I to be able to say all this? Well I am a nearly 40 yr old, mother of 2 daughters aged 11 and 13 who just to add to the stress I home school. This was not planned but circumstances meant it became our way of life and we love it. I have been married to my hubby for 14 yrs and have been his right hand woman ever since. We met at Harper and have been together for 17yrs. Before Harper I worked on a dairy farm in Cheshire. So for most of my life I have been covered in animal shit and dressed in whatever I grabbed out of the draw, usually it clashes and has holes which gains us a few odd looks from the villages. Yep you see that stunning house in the middle of nowhere…….. we don’t have that either lol. Oh we used to live in the middle of nowhere and have acres of space which I loved but the houses were damp and usually the double glazing in the windows was blown so you couldn’t see any of the view. We now live in a 1979 bungalow (complete with the orange bathroom suite and brown tiles) on a street in a pretty much non farming village so we raise a few eyebrows walking around in our wellies and parking our filthy car on the drive.
Anyway I hope some of you can get a sense of farming from the workers point of view from my ramblings.