Sheep are funny critters, aren't they? If one runs, the others follow (woollen) suit, the dags at their behinds rattling like the wooden rosary beads of a rampant nun in full flight. Nuns would have trouble sneaking up on people because of the wooden beads hanging at their waists. On the weekend, I attended my home town of Merriwa for its annual Festival of the Fleeces. Yeah, that's what it's called. And being a writer and a stickler for these things, the word 'fleeces' makes me want to go out and stab a baby kitten with its eyes just newly opened. For those who want to know, the plural of the word 'fleece', is still 'fleece'. And, sigh, given the festival has been going since 1991 (when my father led the parade, dressed in an akubra and oilskin coat and sitting astride a horse), the name has probably been patented and trademarked and copyrighted to within an inch of it's mis-named life. Over the years I have assisted in various aspects of Life With Sheep, as we in the bush know it. I have held the lambs during the procedure known as 'lambing'. If you've ever worked on a farm, you'll know what I'm getting at. When I worked in the Big Smoke, I totally freaked out a lawyer who had invited me for a coffee, when I told him how I used to help out. I learned from a mutual colleague that although he had at first thought me rather attractive, my tales of farm life had given my the status, in his eyes, of psychopath.
But back to the original story, my home town has this thing where quite a lot of sheep are gathered, and have red socks on their forelegs (the feet of the socks have been cut out, so the sheep look like they are actually wearing red leg warmers, and believe me when I tell you they don't really rock that whole Jennifer Beals/Flashdance thing), and run along the main street, just like those bulls in Pamploma. Unlike Pamplona, there are barricades because although again unlike the Spanish town, the sheep are not likely to cause harm to any bystanders, if someone perchance should baulk a trotting ovine beast en route up the main street, the sheep is likely to turn around and the entire flock will go after them, which kind of wrecks the spectacle of the Running of the Sheep. (If this does happen, it's pretty bloody funny). But yeah, and the parade commenced with a blessing from no less than three local clergy representing the Catholic Church, and those other ones that aren't the Catholic Church. It should be noted that neither rabbi, imam, shaman, nor medicine man shaking a stick were invited to offer a kindly spiritual bestowing. And like when I was a child, the sight of sheep running had me tickled pink. Also the sight of children behind what appeared to be a papier mache sheep head, with long white sheets attached coming up the street had me in fits of laughter; it looked like a Chinese dragon.
My sister attended, bringing along husband, a couple, and an elderly man from the West Indies, who was engrossed in the shearing display. But what held us in thrall was exploring what is colloquially known to the locals as 'The Top Pub.' It was just my sister and I who looked, but there was a sentimental reason for this: when we were younger our grandmother owned the pub, and much of our childhood was spent there. The mirror above the fireplace is still there: it has 'McWilliams Wines' stencilled on it. The jukebox that always blared 'The Night Chicago Died' has been moved to a different spot, and in its place (a little room) are poker machines. The staircase has been moved to the back of the pub, but it's the same structure and has the same newel posts and bannister. As we ascended, my sister noted the same step squeaks. At the summit of these stairs, I was taken aback to see it's THE SAME BLOODY CARPET! We wandered along the hall, and remembered which door had led to the Forbidden Zone aka our grandmother's suite. We walked onto the balcony and I asked did she wish to spit on cars parked in the road. (Disclaimer: this was an idiotic game played by bored cousins years ago). She declined.
So we caught up with old friends, and I was able to duck into doorways and avoid the people I wanted to avoid, in particular, my old school bully who still walks with her fists clenched as though about to take a swing at somebody, and still has a face like a bulldog shitting barbed wire.
And as corny as a festival which has sheep running along the main street sounds, it was just lovely. And despite what Tom Wolfe said, you actually can go home.
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