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Ask my wife to describe me in one word and she’ll say: “Sucker!” And explain that if a scantily-clad female doing a prepuce poll for the Wild Coot were to stop by and ask to measure mine, I would probably let her. “Not that Richard would want to, mind you, but he just can’t say ‘No!’ to people.” This is true. And it gets me into all sorts of trouble. I once even agreed to be featured in THE NATION’s Better Health Magazine. Thank God the month before I was to appear they pictured La Esther Byer-Suckoo in an issue later voted “the most likely to be read by men in the bathroom”. I got out by the skin of my fore. Yet, when Carol Roberts phoned to get me on her five-to-nine morning show, I nearly got sucked in again. “My diction isn’t up to that, Carol,” I protested feebly. “Try Wayne Smith, our Goat Association president.” “I’m entirely familyah with Wayne’s diction,” she countered with a flawless BBC flounce, “and I didn’t find it in the least impressive.” As I floundered wildly, salvation finally came from modern terminological obfuscation: “Carol, there’s already too much live streaming down here on mornings. I’ll get back to you.” More on that later, but first, the latest farm news. Lots of interesting visitors to the farm. Monkeys mauling our breadfruits. Some spritely oldsters from the mother-in-law’s Autumn Leaves Club. And then one afternoon, who should show up for a long chat in the gallory: Mary-Anne Redman! “Tell me,” she finally asked, “what’s the best way to get hold of Ridley Greene?” “By his shirt front,” I blurted out without thinking. Ridley hasn’t been too complimentary to her in his columns, and, having just learned that the lady is descended from St Lucian Caribs, it suddenly dawned she might want to eat him. A relevant ditty even flashed through my mind: Run, Ridley, run! Mary’s on your tail! Run, Ridley, run, hide in Glendairy jail. Run, Ridley, run, or you’ll wind up “Ridley stewed”; she’ll save your little pigtail for last and have it barbecued! Turns out, however, she only wants a friendly exchange of views. Anyhow, let me clear the air on why live streaming with Carol wouldn’t be a good idea. (Enjoyed the one with Dr Gabby, though, and nuff respect to him!) Morgan Lewis mornings may start as early as five if we’re cooking, usually a bit later. The household consists of three males and two females, easily distinguishable due to the absence of nocturnal raiments. Had Carol come into the bedroom before I got up, she would’ve been asked to pass the towel I keep over the bottom of the bed anent such contingencies. Next, it’s wind elimination time, three generations of Hoads getting it out. Cue for Dennis Johnson in the studio to hit Charles Wright’s Express Yourself! – “Whatever you do, unnh, do it good, unnnh!” My sister Anne in Canada recently bragged that her children were potty-trained at 11 and 15 months. So 17-month-old Dom was forthwith plonked on the potty. Problem is, it’s a girl’s potty and his “wingle” stuck out half-mile. So my wife put me to “hold it down inside”. Bad mistake. Any female will tell you the more you try to hold down a Hoad wingle, the more it will stiffen and stretch. It’s like fighting the beast of Ephesus. Dom and I had to resort to the old Hoad tradition of a “males only” exposé out behind the garage. Works fine, except I don’t like his comparative pointing and derisive chuckling. After breakfast – mine is goat’s milk kefir with molasses, eggs with cassava hats, tea – Carol would’ve heard a weird conversation: “I’m up by Cherry Tree Hill”; “I’m coming down by Bannister’s Dairy”; “Mine is at the portal!” This is the Hoads signing in on the urgency of their bowel movements to reserve a slot in the bathroom. Most mornings Raffie’s in there locked into a Hardy Boys mystery while the rest of us do Hoppa Gangnam style outside the door. Finally, it’s routine matters like smelling one’s underwear to “see if it can make another day” and off to school or the farm with God in His Heaven and all’s right with the world. • Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.