Diary of a typical day

“woke up, got out of bed, road a-closed across from my shed”

Except for terminal bureaucratic compliance and severe thunderstorm warnings, every day at Bloodwood is the same..it’s different. When you are self-employed and the Boss is a bastard, there is nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. Look, I attempt some shape to each day..exercise at 6.30, coffee and breakfast at 7; perhaps a glance at the firewall protected headlines in the Silly Boring Herald imagining what the text of the story contains and why the picture of the elephant in the corner seems stubbornly to be called GOP. Actually, I get much more value by not crossing the publication firewall because I can construct any number of stories to go with each headline and picture. It represents much better value in my opinion and is certainly much more newsworthy.

Then off to do a spot of de-suckering (sic) in our neatly retrained Chardonnay vineyard before a leisurely luncheon of continental small goods and matching wines.

An early afternoon nap is had in front of the fire before the exacting performance required when our one cellar door tasting of the day sensibly occurs at 3pm.

Following that exchange of pleasantries and credit cards, it’s off to read the next illuminating chapter in Penny Olsen’s fully fledged “Flight of The Budgerigar” before a pre-dinner stroll down to the dam to feed the Murray Cod.

Following an umami-centered meal and matching wines, we settle down to the latest quirky blood-soaked Danish comedy. By 10pm, in accordance with our circadian rhythms, we repair to bed convinced that if God had meant us to use our hands while eating frikadeller meat patties, She wouldn’t have invented knives and forks.

Oh, did I not mention the calves I had to re-unite with their mothers in the middle of the night when a couple of them managed to get stuck in a tree lane and bellowed their lungs out; nightshirts, gum boots and umbrellas sprayed in calf scours is the picture you won’t ever see;

or the tractor I bogged while tying to slash a track below the cod dam;

or the pallet of wine which slid off the side of the forklift in transit between the bottling line and the cellar;

or maybe hand-mowing the vineyard because it’s been so damned wet and we don’t use herbicides at Bloodwood..

or perhaps the mad rush into the courier depot for late orders from restaurants in Sydney who expect delivery tomorrow and don’t seem to realise we are 250kms away..over a mountain range..in a flood zone. No? Well maybe that’s a story for another time.

Now I have to keep an appointment I made..meeting a man from the motor trade.