Voice? What Voice? Town Gasbag gets silenced

In a small Northland New Zealand township all is silent. Word has it the Town Gasbag has been silenced for several days. Cause? Rumour has it Ms Gasbag is stuck in bed with Laryngitis. It's travelled through the gossip grapevine. Gossips and Gasbags though out the entire country have been sitting on the end of their computer chairs waiting for the latest made up stories eminating from that far distant Northland town where the Fonterra factory continues to make milk powder and the distant sound of dairy cows can be heard mooing into the distance....

If it was the truth I'd be rich by now. I could make billions! Dreams are free of course. Stuck inside for several days is yours truly. My voice is minimal (although I keep breaking every rule possible and talking on the phone *cough*) - cause? Laryngitis. Last time I had it it lasted ten days. So far this one is coming into day 5 and I feel lousy. It's been go outside briefly - move the cows then scuttle back inside again feeling the worst for the minimal effort made. Yes the editor of the local community rag has been silenced...sort of. They'll repair the rumour machine in about a week or so until then please be patient then we'll tell all. Well it won't be me - mainly because I'm not in town. Not me I'm stuck on a crazy farm well out of earshot of the neighbours - who are a great crew by the way. Since I'm not up to writing too much at the moment I thought I'd share a little story about three bulls, a possum and a bird apartment block...
Ever since I started this blog my family and friends have been try to get me to write a book. Well it's in the process - be it all very slow progress. Who ever hears of someone calling their farm Mad Bush Farm, though I do know of some people who call their something similar. The difference is, they're real farmers - not electric fence-shocked hairy styled, leaky gumboot wearing, stick-like human being living on 12 acres with two kids, animals that aren't exactly normal, and a life that is enough to send anyone to therapy for several sessions.

In 2004 the local Maungaturoto crew got wind that some 'religious people' had bought that week infested, bush covered bare block of land a few miles out of town. The rumour was changed a week later to 'wierd new age cult people' and the rumour spreaders were all too disappointed to find out it was a Mum and two kids starting a new life far away from any hassles. The house was started in June after the weather finally allowed the construction to begin. Winter was wet but slowly and surely the framing went up. At the top of the farm was an old barn/garage that had been used so it was rumoured as a party venue for 'new age cult people'. All we found were a few bottle caps with Tuis Yeah Right beer stamp on them, an old piano with rumpty keys, a picnic table and someones old kitchen units complete with sink and taps. There it remained. Turning up one day Derek one of the builders asked me if I had any bulls there on the farm. He was given a blank look as in ?????. Turned out that sure enough three rather big rather mean looking jersey bulls had decided to make their new home at Mad Bush Farm. We rigged an electric fence around the house to stop the bovine monsters from playing demolition crew with the house framing then carried on with life away from the farm for another few weeks. I would visit the farm every so often to see how progress was on the house, see a monstrous jersey head rise up now and then from out of the 6 ft long Kikukuyu grass and yet another tree start to vanish into a bovine mouth. The bulls belonged to Terry next door - in the end the boys took them out and nothing more was seen of the gang of three. I realised that perhaps with all the bad weather that perhaps those three bulls might have checked out the ramshackle barn and sought shelter during the worst of the winter storms. On a nice day I took a walk up to the barn and checked it out. Sure enough the bulls had made very good use of the free conference venue provided by the stupid idiot humans for their private and exclusive use - so had it seemed some other creatures. The picnic table had been made full use of - the bull executives had sat down on top of it and had discussed their next corporate take over of the rival bull down the road's herd. With the decision made they decided the boardroom table needed an overhaul and had crush it to match sticks. So much for balmy summer evenings at my now destroyed picnic table. Their calling card had been left on the old thunderbox in the corner and an old window frame looked ever-so fashionable with the decoration of dried green dung splattered across the cracked dusty glass. Within a kitchen unit draw left partially open - the tail and feet of a possum sticking out as the maruspial sod slept soundly. Above the sound of multitudes of cheeping starling chicks the nests all stacked up in the open wall units the parent birds flying in and out labouring to keep up with the demand. It's the funniest thing I have ever seen. I hate possums but seeing the one sleeping in an old kitchen draw was just too funny for words. I think I spent an entire day laughing over that one. We got the possum the next week in the trap - no loss there. So much for the new-agers. No - we're just ordinary people living a crazy life.