It was a good day at the Royal Melbourne Show overall, despite me waking up in the morning with a headache and thinking Oh goody, a day at the Show will do this headache the world of good.
We staggered off the train, exhausted from the effort of avoiding eye contact with the heavy-lidded young woman on her second vodka and lime UDL can (at ten in the morning) who was steadfastly ignoring her whining toddler to take phone calls from her partner about how what the charge was to be and how long the gaol sentence would be, while explaining to her friend how she was off to Queensland soon to see her four.other.children who had been taken away from her. My boys kept giving me covert shocked looks. (She and her friend laughed at my sock knitting, saying the knitting needles looked like chopsticks).
Thankfully things improved once we arrived at the Show, I popped a panadol and we headed for the dog judging.
Despite the older two being at that age where The Show is all about the rides and your friends and the rides and the showbags and the rides and the noise, I did insist on at least a wee bit of animal viewing.
The 12 day old piglets (seen here eating a car) won my heart. They are, rather sadly, known as baconers. Or is it porkers? I forget. We asked what a pig's natural lifespan is and the farmer just shrugged. Never found out, he replied laconically.
We ate our lunch while watching impossibly tiny girl-children on their impossibly tiny shiny ponies performing dressage tricks, followed by the amazing and totally fearless Ukrainian cossack rider Sergei Someoneov who was followed by the rather unimpressive Samson the Monstertruck. Samson drove over the top of some wrecked cars and, as we were sitting in the front row on a corner of the track, showered us and garnished our lunch (sausages in bread with tomato sauce followed by an apple thank you for asking), with dirt and grit five times before exiting the stadium.
Then came the utterly insane motorcross bikeriders, some or all of whom (I'm not sure, the MC was shrieking incoherently) are members of the Crusty Demons. All I can say is that I hope their mothers were not watching. Those boys are nuts.
I was thinking of sending that photo to my parents, saying Your three grandsons have a new hobby.
We also saw the mighty woodchoppers (Tasmania won), and a wonderful sheepdog demonstration. I dragged Son #3 off to the craft pavilion and made him look at the jams and breads and knitting and quilts and the gingerbread houses. Which reminds me, I never showed you Son #3's gingerbread house, made at school a few weeks ago and all I have to say is that maths lessons aren't what they were in my day. Behold.
The architects among you might notice that it even has flying buttresses.
Ok, back to the Show.
The boys were allowed one showbag each.
And one ride each. Son #2 wanted to go on one of those scary ones,
so I went to the Victorian Apiarists' stand and absorbed some interesting facts about bees (and bought some honey) and we met up later and he was still in one piece.
Then we caught the train home and I knitted with my chopsticks and sent a text to Mr Soup saying O GOD POR DA YN WE R ON R WAY HM.