TO save the people involved any embarrassment, the only thing I’ll say is this market was in one of those sister city places along a big river, where they don’t know if they are Arthur or Martha, coming or going.
And all that confusion was reflected in the setup they called a farmers’ market.
This place had it all, from snake-oil merchants to row upon row of hucksters selling lotions, notions and potions for everything from the conniptions to constipation.
There were a few crafty old dears straight out of the Country Women’s Association history book with their dainty little crochet clobber.
Jams, cakes, honey and cheese were also well represented.
Along with a shyster selling “cow hides” which didn’t look as though they had ever come from any cow I had ever seen.
He assured me they were Australian made (I think he meant grown) and that they came from brahmans.
“Oh,” the Whacker nodded. “You mean yaks. Do you have any from real cows?”
From that point on our conversation started to break down, particularly when he told me he wanted $600 for one of these scabby, wafer-thin excuses for a hide and I had just bought a few fair-dinkum hides from Minnamurra Pastoral’s range of Speckle Park cattle.
For a lot less than that – including delivery. Indeed, by comparison the Speckle Parks looked as though they might still be alive.
While the missus ambled up and down the aisles deeply contemplating the most pathetic of offerings, an art form she has perfected over the years, I did my best impression of a cigar-store wooden Indian.
Until she came up, weighed down with plastic bags of useless rubbish, and insisted on dragging me towards this fakir’s tent.
Where I was confronted by a remarkably big bruiser offering massages. “What the hell are you on about woman?” I demanded.
“Now Whacker,” she said. “You have been complaining about your back and neck ever since I made you go and sleep in the next room last week so I didn’t have to listen to your snoring. This will be perfect to help loosen you up.”
Truth be told, it was also the best night’s sleep I have had in a while because the missus, God bless her little cotton bedsocks, is no mean trumpeter herself.
But, if you think I am the one who’s going to tell her that, you’ve got another thing coming.
As you know, the Whacker is no longer in the full bloom of manhood so while the idea had some appeal there was always the risk one of me mates might also have been dragged along to the market and might see me, which I would never live down.
So with the missus pushing, and my head spinning around to see if there was anyone I didn’t want to see, I was finally pushed into a weird chair where everything seemed back-to-front.
Then, before I could say pardon me, the bruiser had set about my body with a will, pushing, poking, digging his elbows in and pinching parts of me that had me squirming and the sweat breaking out.
Of course being the Whacker meant I could show no pain but I overestimated myself when the bruiser asked if it was too hard.
“Nah, mate,” I said. “Give it your best shot.”
That’s the last thing I remember before descending into a world of searing agony, the likes of which I had never known.
I think this guy took me apart and then slapped me back together with a lot of bits either left out or now in the wrong places – it has been four days since we were at the market and I still ache in places I had forgotten I had muscles.
So, as I tried to stagger and stand straight all at the same time, I steered the missus towards the ute saying it was time to go.
As I loaded her bags into the back I asked her where the vegies were.
“Oh, Whacker, you can be so funny at times. There were only a couple of fruit and vegie stands. I’ll duck into town later and go to the supermarket. Things are much cheaper there anyway.”
