The Whacker has been accused, by some irate reader, of practising the evil art of misogyny. Well the old Whacker has been called a lot of things, but never that.
I am sure of it, because for a start, this is the first time I have ever heard the word.
So I shouted at the missus to leave off what she was doing in the kitchen and get me the dictionary.
When she had duly fetched it I said: “Don’t just stand there woman, look it up and read it to me”.
Which she duly did, and I can tell you readers, I was truly aghast.
Granted at my point in the chronological scheme of things I can occasionally be something of a crusty old curmudgeon.
But to suggest I was suffering from, and here the missus is quoting the venerable Macquarie, a “hatred of women” is simply going too far.
Why some of my best friends are women.
Hell, I even married one.
What is this ignorant person talking about?
Let’s pull up a seat and think about this in a rational manner.
And while we are working our way through this unfounded accusation, we can enjoy some of the sponge the missus whipped up this morning while she was waiting for the washing machine to finish.
The Whacker has four sons, and they have also seen fit to all marry women.
So obviously this misogyny thing is not a genetic flaw.
In fact, the old man also married a woman.
So there you have it. As plain as the nose on your face. There is no sign of woman hating in my family tree, no matter how hard you shake it, and I feel I have every right to feel harshly done by with these calls about anything to the contrary.
I know the missus is happy with me.
Why only the other day I was talking to her about finally retiring and she told me point blank: “I just don’t think I’ll be able to cope with more of you about the house”.
Now if that’s not a compliment I’ll go he.
Just the time she gets to spend with me is already so fulfilling that she doesn’t think she can take any more.
So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
After years of me mustering, crutching, drafting, shearing, cropping, digging ditches and putting up fences, clearing land (all legally I assure you), repairing machinery, sowing pasture, doing a bit of contracting here and there in the lean times, digging dams and pulling bogged sheep and cattle from then when they have run out of water, I have obviously still found time to more than fill her heart, God bless her.
And despite lending a hand in nearly all of the above, plus doing the books, running the house and those aforementioned kids, despite all that hard yakka, she feels more of me is more than she deserves.
“Whacker,” she said. “If you are going to pull up stumps I think it is time I found a part time job, or did some volunteer work in town.”
What can I say?
My eyes were going moist at the thought she felt she had to stump up and do her bit because her old Whacker’s body is finally giving up the ghost.
“No, no, my love,” I told her.
“There’s no need for that. We are doing pretty well on the back of the past few seasons. We’ll just be able to look at all those golden years ahead, with the two of us here together.”
Now I knew she would be excited, but I never expected the reaction I got.
Screaming with sheer excitement she ran into the paddock, doing circles and waving her arms around. Obviously trying to tell anyone who could hear of the good news.
Misogynist? Bah! Game, set and match to the Whacker.
