Given that there a few a names that will most likely pop up from time to time throughout the posts on this blog, I thought I’d better introduce everyone who lives at this little farm. As we already have a business website with all our contact details on it, I’m not concerned about internet privacy, in case you were wondering.
Ceilidh – that’s me, author of this blog as well as part-time admin assistant in Bendigo, our local regional centre. When I’m not commuting up the highway, I am also chief planner, implementer, troubleshooter and project manager for this little farm (aka Apulia Grove).
Charles – my husband. IT guru extraordinaire, erstwhile punk rocker, movie star and all round awesome guy. OK, I’m probably more than somewhat biased!
Jess and Grubby – our two cats. Mental as anything and the best mousers I’ve ever owned. They get plenty of practice, which might help. Jess is the black and white one and is about 12 months older than Grubby, our ginger and white female, who is particularly aptly named.
Nancy – our Kelpie. Also mental as anything, but such a sweetie. She’s looking forward to the time we get some sheep and in the meantime has been known to practice herding with the neighbours’ instead . . . ahem. Named after Sid Vicious’ girlfriend, Nancy Spungen because when you’ve got one half of a famous couple, you’ve got to have the other, right?
Sid – Our tractor. When we bought this little farm, the purchase price included a three HP Kubota which we were going to paint black and call the “Anarchy Tractor”*, with the symbol and everything. And who represents anarchy best? Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols, naturally. Well, naturally if you’re Charles and you happen to be an ex-punk rocker. And when you’ve got one half of a famous couple, you’ve got to have the other, right?
Frank – our Rapanelli Mini 70 Olive Oil Processing Machine. So named because initially, mostly due to user error, we got the impression that the machine “did it my way”.
*Based loosely on the concept of the “apathy couch” which I believe comes from John Birmingham’s book “He Died with a Falafel in His Hand”, although it’s been a while since I read it, so apologies if I’m wrong.