Bubbles.


I'm not quite sure, but I've survived, in fact you might say that I've thrived. Without my food all wrapped and sealed, when I had my dinner in the field.

I've eaten food with filthy hands, it happens when you work the land. The bits of crust go black with muck and then the dogs know they're in luck.

If someone offers you a sweet, you're tempted because it is a treat. But they've been kept in pockets full of bits of tissue, twine and wool.

And in the summer it gets hot, you check your lunch for signs of rot. A melted sandwich, curled and warm is what we had, it's quite the norm.

Your apple dropped upon the grass, is cleaned up quick across you ass. Regardless of what's on your clothes that's down to luck, the way it goes.

And if it's hot we'd share a drink, we'd hold the hose in a short kink. Then let it go all over our heads to cool us for the work ahead.

We used to drink milk from the tank and all our friends thought that was rank but it was creamy, fresh and clean and we knew just where it had been.

We'd pick field mushrooms for our tea, you just can't beat the food for free. We'd bring them home inside our hat, you don't get fresher food than that.

And Mum would get us picking berries, apples, pears and loads of cherries. And she would make chutney and jam, we ate it all with bread and ham.

And we were told to avoid hurt, that there was clean and dirty dirt. and we were very seldom ill out on our farm upon the hill.

So please don't wrap your kids in bubbles, that is the way to ask for trouble. Let them have fun and climb the trees, don't worry about their scabby knees.

Farm kids will grow up big and strong. they learn so fast what's right and wrong. Let them dig worms and play with slugs, They'll grow immune to nasty bugs. Jan Millward©