h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The herd down in the milking shed, steam rising off their backs, electric light, motors, corrugated iron, the amazing sight of so much milk, white and thick, being sucked through the hoses to the tank. It should smell to low hell of s**t and lagoons of piddle, but actually the stink is refreshing, and there is also the sweet, raw tang of milk as drops from the hose spot the concrete.

First things first, though, because the day begins back in bed, where sleep clings like a huge beard to your shocked face as you rise and make your way to the kitchen to put on the kettle and warm your hands on whatever heat remains from last night's stove fire. It's only early spring, but still bloody cold in the mornings, and rain falls from the darkness. Raincoat, a thick pair of pants, gumboots. The panting dog on the back of your farm bike, you drive to the paddock and urge the herd into action, torchlight blazing holes in the black hills. There's always the same few cows who know the score and wait to set off down the race. Close the gate. For a moment, turn off the torch. Look behind you, and you can't see a thing - the darkness of New Zealand countryside before dawn is the blackest thing you might ever experience. But you can hear the shambling, clicking hooves, and maybe the stream.

Most of the herd should have calved by now. They are up to their ears in milk. The motor is turning over back at the shed, and it's nice to have something playing on the radio; cows deserve to listen to Concert FM until the birds clear their throats.

Any funny business from a kicking, ill-tempered cow and there is soft twine to tie up a back leg. You have to watch for bloat, and mastitis, and infections, and any humping may mean a sudden outbreak of lesbian fever but is more likely a sign of heat and for you to make a note of the eartag and ask the vet to get their arm stuck right in.

Otherwise - gently place the chain over your client's back, get the cups on, click the suction clamp and you're in business. The milk must go through; the world of good, decent citizens who like their coffee white depends on it. Wait till the last drop. Show some mercy and common sense, for heaven's sake, and click the clamp off before you remove the cups. Open the gate - but first, slip off the chain and bar it against the next client or she will barrel on past, right in front of your astonished snoot, and bad language has no place on a farm.

Afterwards, with the cows led to a new pasture, you must observe cleanliness and rip the s**t and p**s off the concrete with a high-pressure hose. Good work. It's now past dawn, and you have seen the black sky smudge to grey, the world become visible, the dripping trees, the cat with its tongue out, and taken a look in the milk tank.

HEY LOON

THIS IS LOONEY! REALLY! LOL! BUT GOT ME CRACKING A LITTLE.

HOW IS DOWN UNDER?

As always, it is Eden-like down here in Godzone. The birds are shining and the sun is singing.

I await your celebratory opus praising that Norwegian contribution to the good life, the apple, or was it the tree?

Down under you say me boy. Sometimes I wonder what down under

The tree I know not, into the fruit I sink me teeth oft. No doubt it makes life desirous at times, unless of course you have a pile of work staring at you like it does me about right now.
And the sun took your cue and went down under (the adder?) Yest the clock striketh nil past the middday hour! Darkness in northern Europa, water from the(clouds?) spewing forth like an angry lass's tears, beating my window pane furiously. Thank God it aint no plane..... yet(?).

LOOn still there?

It started with a castrated Havelock North, (NZ), ram outsprinting a Hastings policewoman on her daily jog along a country lane.

It ended less than an hour later with her neighbour's house looking like Jack-the-Ripper's place with blood-smeared walls, smashed windows and all the hallmarks of murder most foul.

In between was the bizarre case of the wether that broke the high-jump record when he smashed through a ranchslider window and charged around inside, causing $3000 damage to a Tukituki valley house belonging to Hastings designer and builder Andy Bell.

He told the "baalieve it or not" story yesterday. It went like this:

His Raratu Rd neighbour, the policewoman, was coming back from her jog when a couple of sheep grazing the grass alongside the road ran ahead of her and up the Bells' driveway. Thinking the sheep belonged to another neighbour, she telephoned to say that the sheep were in the Bells' place.

The policewoman and neighbour, doing the country neighbourly thing, went to round them up. But the sheep, which in fact belonged to nearby Morea Farm, were not having a baa of it - one of them in particular. This sheep, according to Mr Bell, was a hurdles champion who did not like the reflection in the ranchslider of the fellow looking back at him.

Sailing nearly a metre into the air he burst through the four-millimetre thick glass cutting his nose.

By the time the ranchslider was unlocked, the house looked like a murder scene, Mr Bell said. "I was supposed to be going hunting but I told my mate our house had been broken and entered by a sheep."

There was blood sprayed through the family room, the snug and the master bedroom. There, the sheep failed to find the en-suite and dropped some pellets while checking himself out in the mirror.

An insurance company is looking for someone to pay a $3000 clean-up account.

And the sheep? "Last seen running down the road heading for another house, but looking as good as gold."