Eighth Day of Christmas

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me... eight maids-a-milking.

I have never milked a cow. I've seen it done though. Growing up there was an Agricultural College in our village, and they had open days. These cows were milked by machines great barns of cows, standing chewing the cud whilst pints of milk were collected. On holidays in the West Country as a child I saw milking done the traditional way too. 

Of course there were my cousins' grandparents and their goats. This looms large in my mind as, although I've since developed a taste for goats cheese, as a child I couldn't bear goats milk. Let's be honest, if you are my age and had the 'free milk' at school you probably weren't fond of that. I imagine they were about a half pint bottle, delivered in crates and left outside until morning break. Not too bad in winter but distinctly unpleasant in Summer. It only took a few lactose intolerant children who brought juice instead before we were all demanding a release from break-time milk!