Must I specify free-range milk too?

News today from the NZHerald site on the advent of cubicle farming for cows. While this is common in Europe, it is neither common here, nor generally necessary, due to more reasonable NZ climactic conditions. And the fact that it’s done elsewhere does not make it acceptable here.  The produce of human fodder at the great expense of the producer is not civilised behaviour. But then we humans have a great record of exploiting not just other creatures, but fellow humans as well.

I’d go so far as to suggest that if the region planned for intensive farming is not suitable for normal dairy farming, why not farm something else there? Oh sorry, I forgot – dairy = lotsa cash = lotsa government clout. Why back something up with reason, consideration and responsibility when you can back it up with cash?

If this is to go ahead – and all likelihood i$ that it will – we have to see some way of differentiating where our milk comes from. We have free range eggs and pork. Now, it sounds like we’re going to have to specify free range dairy too.

What worries me is whether it will be even possible to identify the milk (in fact, all dairy products) that includes produce coming from these cows. It’s highly likely that it will get lumped together with other milk and labelled as usual. So the onus will be on smaller independent producers to identify themselves as free range instead.

I’ll happily spend more on my dairy to support those who have the guts to do that. Smaller producers or not. Although if push really comes to shove, it’s going to be damn hard to give up my kikorangi cheese

Raining cats and dogs

I thought I would take this opportunity (read, procrastinate when I am really supposed to be writing another chapter) to introduce the Wills-Buckwell kids: Sam and Lein.

Sam is the black and white one, an ex-SPCA chap with plenty of issues, mostly around being the centre of attention. He also likes his food. And talking to birds, when he’s not trying to catch them. Typical single bloke, really.

By the process of elimination then, you should have worked out that Lein is the grey one. Correct. A Kerry Blue Terrier, to be precise. He also has issues, as he’s an ex-show dog who we adopted as an adult after his show career was over. So he also likes to be the centre of attention. And he takes guarding the house far too seriously for our liking; he is suspicious of strangers and downright hostile to other dogs. Both things that Kerries are known for.  In fact, in this picture, though he appears to be philosophising, he’s actually watching the gate for intruders.

However, he is a big clown and will do anything for a tummy rub or a bit of cheese. And once he knows you, he is Mr Gregarious.

Lein has also successfully disproved several people who told us that we couldn’t get an adult Kerry Blue Terrier to live happily with a cat. Sure, he chased him the first week, but slowly and surely, they got used to each other, and now, after a year, they’re happy to hang out together.

Auckland – a year on.

So. I’ve been back in Auckland a year.

Which seems a little crazy, since I thought I’d have plenty of time to blog, but somehow, I have not.

It’s not like I’ve been too busy getting out and about. I see the odd play, the odd movie, go to the odd event. But I am a freelance writer and also a post-graduate student – I don’t have cash to flash on going out.

It’s not that I’m less opinionated. Or less interested.

Could it have something to do with doing my Masters? Perhaps. It certainly has been a year of binging on books – both the reading of many and the writing of one. Now, blogging feels almost like skiving – sneaking a bit of frivolity away from my real work. And that’s been the biggest surprise of the year – writing my novel is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Back in March, when I started my Master of Creative Writing, I said to those of my friends with children, ‘I’m writing a book instead of having kids – it’s easier.’

‘Cool,’ they said. ‘Although kids are very rewarding.’

All the stuff to do with birth – the pain, the gestation time, the bodily impact of it all – was just the tip of my aversion. I listened to the tales of emergency cesareans and sleepless nights and watched friends’ lives revolve around the little people they had made. I heard of exhausting growth spurts and potty-training failures. And I thought, ‘Nah. Way too hard.’ Whereas a book is just taking your great idea, sitting at the computer, tapping your fingers on some keys, researching some bits that you don’t know enough about, a bit more tapping, then you’re done. Right?

Right.

At the beginning it was easy. It wasn’t like real work. It was fun, thrilling, self-indulgent. I set myself a date: 31 December. Nine months. I worked myself into a frenzy, churned out 3000 words one day, the next day none.

Slowly, over the months, the book grew. An idea became a tangible thing. But the writing of it also became more difficult. My characters developed and asserted themselves in unexpected ways – sometimes keeping me up at night. The plot, as they say, thickened – although in some areas it remained too thin. I worried about how to even it out.

I developed sore shoulders from sitting at the computer; I got RSI in my wrists. Every time I sit down at the computer I feel like I am writing uphill.

My book resides constantly in my head; it accompanies me to the supermarket, bed and the toilet. It wakes me in the night with random ideas, often irrelevant. My book is so large in my head it is hard to concentrate on anything else.

Birthing my first book is difficult, painful and harrowing. And there is the very real fear that it could be a complete waste of time. Unlike a child, born into a family who are expecting it – have prepared a room for it – my book has no such guarantees. Whether a publisher will adopt it, no one knows. Rewards are not only not guaranteed, but if they happen, they are potentially also a long way off.

Despite these concerns, my book has now been eight months in gestation  – far enough in that I cannot change my mind. I cannot get a surrogate. No one else can do this for me. I have another month (perhaps with two weeks of ‘overdue time’ – seeing as it is a first novel) and I will get there, tired, battered and mentally bruised.

They say everyone has a book in them. I feel like I have several.

But after this one, I am seriously considering making it an only child…