Country Living – Died in the wool

Was it blissful naivety or complete desperation that propelled that shearer to ask me to rousey that one memorable time? Whatever it was, I had absolutely no intention of allowing my numerous fitness level flaws get in the way of my pride. Looking back, perhaps I should have spent my pre-start time consuming copious amounts of energy drinks and doing stretching exercises as opposed to procrastinating over my attire. Nevertheless, I bounced up to the shed all eager to go, and my girlfriend Manawarangi kindly informed me that she would be taking the two very fast shearers, and I would have the two slower ones – great! Twenty minutes in and with the 70s playlist blaring, I was thinking I had a complete sassy handle on the whole gig. That was until I glanced around and realised that my girlfriend was going triple my speed and picking up half my wool.

Oh dear, how embarrassing! I had better engage turbo mode. So I tried to keep up, but after an hour in and with sweaty armpits and crotch, I was pretty much already dying a slow and painful death and yet my girlfriend looked like a spring daisy. I remember thinking, “Hell, a gal should be picking up rubies or diamonds exerting this much energy.” Surprisingly, I managed to make it through to smoko when, by a stroke of luck, the real and competent rousey turned up. Did I stink? Yes, but not of body odour; more like the smell of beautiful organic accomplishment or, if you like, ‘parfum de ewe’. My hands felt as soft as marshmallows from all that lanolin in the wool. Could this explain why all the men and women who work in these sheds look so ageless, even spring lamb-like, while I more fitted into the category of barren old ewe?

I wondered if the people in the shearing game had discovered the fountain of youth and were secretly holding out on us all. Maybe it was time to ditch those expensive anti-aging night creams and go for a good old-fashioned romp amongst the wool? Anyway, whatever it is that drives these men and women that underpin the wool industry in this country, it needs bottling urgently. I have always felt privileged to be around those in this punishingly physical profession, who have anchored our country’s wool industry with humility. The price of wool to the farmer in this country, to me, remains a great travesty. Why is it nobody can afford to walk on it or wear it, yet we get nothing for it? This needs to change, as synthetics are creepy and don’t keep you warm. I was never asked to rousey again. A polite and respectful silence on the subject remained in place for years. Sometimes words don’t need to be said, they are just known. I adored them for that. Rousey score card: 2/5, because I made it through to smoko. Coming up next month, catering and the ‘cut-out Queen’. Ha ha ha.

Julie Cotton
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