Last week's news that animal owners in Dunedin residential areas may have to collect their furred and woolly ones' droppings got a warm welcome from me.
My enthusiasm would have been unbridled, but there may be some bylaw which says it should be on a leash, so I have been tamping it down to avoid the authorities' all-seeing eye.
I and my siblings thought we'd found the solution to sheep dropping pollution decades ago.
When townie kids came to visit our farm we'd tell them the droppings were large raisins and try to encourage them to scoff a few.
Nowadays we might be labelled as bullies, reported to the social welfare agencies and our parents chastised for allowing us too much freedom.
My enthusiasm last week was two-fold.
I could see many possibilities for manure collection and, even better, it distracted me from the flummery about yummy mummery leading up to Mother's Day.
Those who own the properties which might be affected by any possible future poo collection requirements presumably have no interest in doing the dirty deed themselves.
Could it provide employment for public servants likely to lose their jobs during the term of this Government? Some might not find the work differs markedly from their existing jobs.
Scores of wastrel women languishing on the DPB raising their children rather than doing a real job could be directed into this field by Social Development Minister Paula Bennett.
While it might sound mundane, there would be opportunity to develop high-powered portable poo suckers, or a recyclable nappy system designed for each type of animal, and to add value (love that jargon) by using the manure in compost production.
This could be sold to trendy types intent on growing their own vegetables.
Could this wonderful idea being considered by our city fathers and mothers be adapted to deal with the pesky problem of freedom campers' waste?
For this we might need a show of force.
Why not free up a few prison beds by stationing some of our most grim looking inmates, each complete with a ball and chain, to undertake round-the-clock shifts in some of the notorious freedom camping plop spots?
Since their job would be to clean up any of the tourists' waste, it would not be long before they would be gently encouraging better behaviour.
Visitors would be scared witless, which might solve the problem altogether once word got around.
Other thrill seekers might see the street cred in having their picture taken with some evil-looking character.
Prison authorities could charge for the privilege.
As usual, my wonderful ideas are destined to remain unfertilised, but it did take my mind off media motherhood portrayal.
Recently, I had the misfortune to read a Sunday Star-Times story which began "It's tough being a mum, even when you're gorgeous celebrity mum, Kate Hawkesbury ..."
I went on to read the accompanying article about an online survey (not random) on motherhood which suggested today's mothers were feeling overwhelmed, under-supported, unsexy and terrified of making the wrong choices.
Welcome to the real world, sisters.
Since my idea of sexy or even gorgeous was finding a top which covered the post-pregnancy flab and wasn't adorned by sick or greasy marks, I must confess I didn't relate to the unsexy business.
And wouldn't the wise woman justify her unsexiness by reminding herself it was sex that led to her state of low self-esteem?Isn't it time women fought this nutty notion they must look good all the time? Do the men in their lives look endlessly fantastic or do their partners tolerate flabby abs, paunchy pukus, hairs sprouting in strange spots and some odd dress combos?Looking good is not what it is all about.
Looking good will not change anything for three mothers who come to my mind in the lead-up to this year's commercial frenzy on Sunday.
One hopes her son, recently released from a brief stint in jail brought about by years of silly offences, will have learned something from the experience.
Another puts on make-up and a brave face because her daughter is a prostitute on P.
That mother knows if she started crying she might never stop.
The third, whose only child died many years ago, is grateful when her motherhood is remembered.
In my foolish unrealistic motherly way, I wish I could wave a magic wand over them all.
To distract myself again, I idly wonder if I should be following the cat around with a ruler to see if her habits comply with the suggested council bylaw (manure buried under at least 50mm of soil).
I know it will be important to look good while doing this, lest anyone suspect me of insanity.
I just can't decide whether to go for sexy or gorgeous.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
