Heaven and Home

The foodbank is underused in Dumfries, and there are so many shops involved into the scheme that a surplus has formed. The supermarkets reckon it’s good PR to feed the poor, so they teem their almost-out-of-date supplies into the depot and never wonder if it’s being used or finding a home amongst the needy. Perhaps the people at the foodbank are too anxious to complain, worried that if they turn it down then it might not come so easily in the future. So they claim to be grateful, and afterwards wonder how they’ll get rid of so much stuff. 

My pigs have volunteered to ease the pressure. Once a week, I receive boxes of pastries and bread left over from this strangely broken system. There are pretzels and croissants, cheesy buns and german-style artisan loaves in a foam of wraps and packaging. I pour them into the sty and listen to the delighted sound of munching. The food comes in such abundance that I no longer need to buy pig feed from the store in Castle Douglas. I haven’t spent a penny on my livestock for months, and not only am I glad of the saving, but pig food is made from ugly exotic constituent parts. There’s soya protein from South America, and hidden imports which leave a dirty mark on the damaged environment. I’m sure it’s better to fatten pigs on local waste than costly, custom-made rations – but while everybody’s satisfied by this solution, I usually keep it to myself. It’s not safe to announce that you’re getting something for nothing.

A delivery came this morning, and amongst the usual mess of rolls and baguettes, there were crates of hot cross buns. If medieval swineherds watched the woods for acorns in autumn, here’s a pleasing return to seasonal forage. From this, I can tell that the outside world is approaching Easter, and the year is marching on. The pigs ate them noisily, tearing the buns from their six-pack racks while chickens pecked at the saliva-drenched pulp which fell from the sides of their mouths. I took a bun for myself, and I consumed it in four mouthfuls as I ferried crates into the darkness of the shed. When I emerged, there was beady shape on the telephone wire which runs across the yard. The first swallow of 2023 had arrived, and now in this washed-out late winter world there are daffodils and the first maternal swell of rising grass. Spring came this morning, reflected in the crackle of discarded packaging and a waft of cinnamon in the breath of pigs.