I hate to admit it, but one of me grandsons is a useless lump.
In fact, on a scale of one to 10, this lazy good-for-nothing does not even register a blimp.
Fortunately, to look at him, it is clear his inherent inertia does not come from the Curmudgeon side of the family.
I remember warning my daughter about mixed marriages.
But no, she would have her own way and went ahead and married a Tasmanian with my warnings ringing in her ears.
Well the chickens have come home to roost now and this is where it has got her.
I sat the bugger down in the machinery shed the other day – he has been sent up here to try and get a bit of initiative knocked into him.
“Listen boofhead,” I said in my kindest growl.
“The farm is getting bigger all the time with your old man and your uncles starting to kick some real goals, so there'll be plenty of opportunity for you if you could just find a way to get off your arse and get into gear.”
The Curmudgeon, as you would expect, never minds calling a spade a shovel.
So this little git reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tattered page from a city newspaper.
Well I have always been a bit leery of anything coming out of the big smoke, and that includes their newspaper and all the rubbish they put in them.
But junior here waves it in my face and says: "Check this out old man. This is hardly what I call something to look forward to.”
That was his parents’ other mistake – sending this kid to a city high school.
He might be smart, but the most noticeable thing I reckon he brought home with him is a smart mouth.
So I grabbed his bit of paper and scanned down the page.
It was from the employment section and it was a story on people working more, getting less done and being paid less for it.
There was a chart on the front page showing the different industries and how much more the average stiff worked.
As you would expect the public service was the only one which averaged less than 38 hours a week.
Quite a few were up in the low to mid 40 hours a week.
And then you got to agriculture, which was at the bottom of the chart.
The hours your average farmer worked were so excessive they didn't actually fit on the chart.
The green line simply had an arrow pointing south.
Crikey I thought.
Maybe the little bugger’s onto something.
But by the time I had got over the shock of how hard and how long the average cocky works, junior had taken advantage of my distraction and bolted before I got him onto the chaser bin.
That's the fastest I have ever seen him move.