Day Eight: Eight Maids a-Milking

By morning, the bungalow smelled faintly of oat milk, wet feathers, and a kind of moral fatigue normally associated with tax season.

Stephen was up early, quietly rinsing the paddling pool outside and pretending that was a normal thing for a married man to do.

At least the swans were gone. Or relocated. Or diplomatically evicted. Everything depended on how you defined “successfully negotiated.”

Inside, the bungalow had a nervous stillness to it. Jane’s pencils were arranged in defensive rows across the dining table, her sketchbook open to a half-finished drawing of a cow wearing ballet slippers — a draft for a new picture-book idea she was testing. She had circled the cow’s ankles twice in red pencil and written: Needs softer shading. Also: why is it looking at me with judgment?

Roo lay in the garden, Head of Tummy Tickle Operations, overseeing her kingdom with paws aloft.

Stephen checked his phone.

A new notification pulsed cheerfully:

Delivery Scheduled: Eight Maids a-Milking — ETA 9:00 a.m.

He stared at it with the hollow dread of a man reading his own autopsy report.

Jane padded into the kitchen in her robe, curls damp from the shower, clutching a mug that read World’s Tiredest Illustrator.

“Please tell me nothing alive is arriving today,” she said.

“Technically,” he replied, “they’re not animals.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Technically?”

He smiled the smile of a man who hoped technicalities could save a marriage.

The doorbell rang.

Shape

The courier — a tall woman with a clipboard and the emotional resilience of someone who had delivered weirder — stepped aside to reveal eight teenage girls in matching hoodies: Dairy Futures Internship Programme.

Each held a stainless-steel pail, a clipboard, and a laminated badge listing their dairy competency level.

“Your interns,” the courier said. “Work placement. Day-long supervision.”

She handed him a form titled HOST RESPONSIBILITIES: LIVESTOCK OPTIONAL.

Jane closed her eyes.

“Stephen.”

“They’re very capable?” he offered.

One of the girls — a brisk red-haired leader type named Lottie — raised her clipboard.

“Mr. Stanley? When do we commence Milking Module 1?”

Jane stared at him.

“Milking what?”

A silence followed — the kind that even the partridge, perched on the windowsill, chose not to interrupt.

Shape

By ten, the maids had fully occupied the kitchen table.

A girl with purple braids was on a Zoom call with “Corporate Dairy HQ.”

Another filled out a worksheet titled Create a Goat-Readiness Assessment.

Someone had already posted an Instagram story: Live from the Stanley Farm: Pasture Vibes Only.

Stephen attempted supervision.

The interns ignored him politely.

Lottie clapped. “Team! Begin simulated milking exercise!”

Within seconds, they assembled a milking apparatus using:

two rubber gloves

the blender

duct tape

one anxiety-ridden jug of oat milk

and a laminated card titled MILK SAFE HAND SIGNALS

The blender roared to life with a sound that could summon demons.

Froth exploded across the counter like dairy-based fireworks.

One intern, eager to impress, demonstrated the hand signals:

Level One: Thumbs-up for “steady flow.”

Level Two: Both hands in a circle for “udder malfunction.”

Level Three: Jazz hands for “imminent spillage.”

Stephen attempted a clumsy thumbs-up.

A nearby intern instantly marked it on her clipboard: “Flow confidence: 2/10”.

The blender detonated a fresh burst of foam across the tiles.

A wave of dairy froth slapped his slippers.

Jane appeared in the doorway, laptop open, mid-video call with her editor.

“Stephen,” she hissed, “my camera is on.”

A maid shouted, “Pasteurisation complete!”

Another yelled, “Marking KPIs now!”

A third asked Jane, “Are you the visiting industry illustrator? Can we observe you producing cow anatomy sketches live?”

Jane fled like a woman escaping a haunted house — which, in fairness, she was.

Shape

At eleven, the situation escalated.

The maids took their training outside to “assess habitat suitability for future goats.”

Stephen followed helplessly as Roo supervised from the grass, belly-up, absorbing sunlight like a small furry solar panel.

“This garden,” Lottie announced, kneeling professionally in the soil, “scores low on foraging potential but high on emotional enrichment.”

“For goats,” she clarified. “It’s got excellent… ambient serenity.”

Roo thumped her tail, agreeing with the general serenity.

Another intern discovered Jane’s sketchbook on the patio table.

“Ooh, is this concept art for an agricultural literacy project?”

She held up Jane’s cow drawing.

“Her linework is AMAZING. But the shading lacks — sorry — udder realism.”

Stephen closed the book gently as though sheltering a fragile creature.

“Please don’t critique my wife’s cows.”

From the doorway, Jane watched, her shoulders low and her fingers pressed absentmindedly into the edge of her robe.

Her foot curled slightly against the floor — her tell when she was near the edge of her creative bandwidth.

Stephen felt the familiar, unwelcome twist of guilt.

He had done it again: created chaos on a day she needed calm.

Shape

At noon, the interns returned indoors for “Reflection and Dairy Theory.”

Jane tiptoed into the kitchen for a clean pencil only to find her favourite eraser floating in a jug of foamy oat milk.

She stared at it. Then whispered, “I used that for eyes. For tiny, kind eyes.”

An intern perked up.

“We actually have a Wellness Module if you’d like to process—”

“NO,” Jane said brightly. “Thank you.”

Lottie took attendance.

“Learning outcomes?” she asked.

“Teamwork!”

“KPI alignment!”

“Milk-handling confidence!”

“Mrs. Stanley looks stressed!”

Jane exhaled the kind of breath that could power a wind turbine.

Stephen closed his eyes, wishing — briefly, helplessly — that he could rewind the entire day.

Shape

By three, the interns packed up as efficiently as they’d arrived.

They left behind:

eight internship forms

a garden chart titled GOAT READINESS INDEX

a blender emitting a worrying warmth

and a sticky constellation of oat-milk droplets across every visible surface

They thanked Stephen for “exceptional supervision,” hugged Jane (“Thank you for your artistic mentorship!”), and trooped down the path like a dairy-themed militia.

The bungalow fell silent.

At least superficially.

A slow drip of oat milk hit the floor from the ceiling light fitting.

Jane stared at it.

“There is dairy in our lighting fixtures.”

“Technically it’s plant-based,” Stephen offered.

She gave him a look that could curdle actual milk.

Shape

That evening, they ate leftovers they didn’t remember making.

Roo snored on her back between them, paws in the air, embodying the kind of peace no human could achieve.

Stephen cleared his throat.

“Today wasn’t… ideal.”

Jane didn’t look up from her sketchbook, where she had begun drawing a heroic goat standing proudly atop a hill labelled EMOTIONAL ENRICHMENT ZONE.

“You think?”

“I really did try to keep it calm.”

“You brought eight dairy interns to our house.”

He hesitated.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I keep… tipping the balance on days you need steady ground.”

That earned a soft pause.

Jane set down her pencil.

“I’m not annoyed,” she said quietly. “I’m just tired, Stephen. Really tired. Between the birds, the deadlines… and everything else… today felt heavier than it should have.”

The words landed with something gentle but bruising.

“I hear you,” he said.

And for once, he truly did.

Jane’s expression softened, exhaustion and affection sharing the same space.

For a moment, the air warmed — two tired people touching the same truth from opposite ends of the sofa.

Stephen checked his phone.

A new notification glowed:

Nine Ladies Dancing — Dispatch Confirmed.

He closed his eyes.

Jane looked over his shoulder.

“Please tell me they’re not tap dancers. I can’t cope with tap. Or ribbon routines. Or anything with choreography, honestly.”

He didn’t answer.

Roo rolled onto her side, offering a lazy tail-thump — the household’s unofficial signal for: brace yourselves.

Outside, the garden glowed faintly beneath the winter dusk, Roo’s kingdom settling into quiet.

Tomorrow loomed with suspicious rhythm.