‘Our Day Out’ by Hairy Farmer Wifey, aged 33.

Family days out are as rare as rocking-horse poo when you’re a farming family. So Yippee for the Royal Show, coz it’s nominally an agricultural affair, hence the Farm Approves. Hubby needed prodding a bit in order to be keen, as Bluetongue restrictions have rather impacted the livestock element to the Show this year, but I was mad keen for a day trip, any day trip, particularly as I managed to bend my car around a signpost yesterday and have been sad about it. Sayonara tailgate, back screen, and several hundred quid. Ouchie.

Anyway. Off we jolly-well trotted this morning, only an hour behind schedule. I may as well tell you that Hubby is the world’s biggest irritant when HFFamily depart on holidays or outings of any type. His normally easy-going personality morphs worryingly into that of a demented sergeant-major with particularly troublesome haemorrhoids. Even when he is exhorted to silence, I can easily pick up his radiating vibes of frustration that Goddamit, she’s still packing and it’s gone 8.30am!, and I’m usually stressed as all buggery before the car is anywhere near leaving the drive. Naturally, given the pressurised circumstances, I tend to under-perform and forget things. Like my suitcase of maternity clothes at 5 months pregnant. I’d committed the heinous crime of falling back asleep this morning after he left for work, so when he came back for breakfast to find Harry and I both snoring, he was a tad sniffy, but we did eventually bowl off down the road.

We encountered some terrier-racing first, with an endearing little chappie who thought that, as he’d made the effort to catch the bloody lure, he’d better hang onto it.

  

Then I encountered a mullet of such wondrous splendour that it reduced me to a state of shock and awe. I almost couldn’t focus the camera.

There was showjumping too, but I was dragged past that by my hair.

I spotted some rocking horses, and stopped to enquire the stupendous price.

All of a sudden, the stand seemed to get a bit packed with chaps toting Nikons with rather bigger lenses than ours, and I realised that we were stood squarely in the way of Charlie’s missus.

Camilla eventually managed to edge her entourage around behemoth, and trooped off intrepidly towards the horse arena in her best shoes.

Then we wandered past the cutest piglet ever

and the strangest animal haircut ever

before sitting down to our picnic lunch. Which is when I missed my handbag. Re-tracing of steps proved fruitless, and I couldn’t decide what I preferred to think: that someone had nicked it or I’d been stupid enough to put it down somewhere. John calls my collection of handbags ‘the ferrets’ for reasons known only to himself, and it was becoming apparent that my Fesnyng had become a pretty man down.

Half an hour later my cards were cancelled and I was beginning to get properly snivelley about the ferret’s contents. Pictures of Harry saved on my mobile. The bloody car keys. The entry tickets from our first-ever date. Hubby remarked bracingly that if I was a good girl for another 6 years, he might take me on another one.

We called friends of ours whom we were supposed to be meeting in any event, to break the glad news that they were now taxi-ing HFFamily home as well. Plans to extract Harry’s car seat from John’s locked (but thankfully, broken-booted) car were made. There was a brief further deterioration in our sanity levels a little later on when Hubby mislaid his mobile for a few minutes, but it eventually turned out that Harry was sat on it, looking innocent. 

I attempted to cheer myself up with a trip to the pig arena, as I do like pigs muchly,

but eventually came to the conclusion that a cup of tea was the only possible restorative.

And on the way to the NFU tent, where we had shamelessly ligged already, John’s mobile rang. The ferret was found! We scurried over to lost property and I peered anxiously inside: all present and correct. So thank you very much, farmer-type chap who handed it in but wished to remain anonymous. I am thinking exceedingly nice thoughts about you. These nice thoughts are only marginally dented by the fact that you told the lost-property minion that you had carried it across the showground in a Holstein carrier bag, because you were too ashamed to be seen carrying such a girlie item.

Fair enough.

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