The Twelve Days of Christmas: 8
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: eight maids a-milking.
With eight milk-maids, of course, came eight cows. And with eight cows came a lot of milk. My true love had worried for a while that I was lacking in strength, and decided to prescribe fresh, unpasteurised milk — straight from the cow — to build healthier bones.
I pointed out that I was in my thirties, and therefore the time of life where milk could provide a ‘lotta bottle’ and be a vital source of calcium for a growing child was probably long gone. But my true love was adamant, and before leaving me for a foreign trip devised a strict rota requiring one milk-maid to appear at my bedside first thing each morning with a huge glass of milk — barely minutes after it had left the cow. I was ordered to consume every last drop.
“Just think,” said my true love, with a maternal tone, “you’ll be getting calcium, protein, riboflavin, phosphorous and vitamins A, D and B12.”
I had to admit it sounded impressive. My true love was only concerned for my physical wellbeing, after all.
Yet far from improving my health, it turned out that the unpasteurised milk contained Salmonella and Campylobacter. Very quickly, I began to suffer gastro-intestinal pains, abdominal cramps and diarrhoea. I hesitate to provide details, but it was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.
My true love returned a fortnight later, clearly shocked to see such a pale, weak and sickly frame propped up against a mountain of pillows. I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror for days, but the look of horror on my true love’s face told me all I needed to know. Through dry, cracked lips, I began a feeble attempt at reassurance, but was immediately interrupted.
“So, I suppose you picked up something nasty from sleeping with a milk-maid, then?”
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