Patriot Realm

Today would have been my late sister-in-law’s birthday. This is my tribute to a woman I loved, and our family adored.

She came to New Zealand for love, and walked straight into a milk cart prank. But in the way she handled it - with grace, humour, and a winning way . She passed the only test that really matters in our family: could she laugh with us?

This story isn’t just about a joke. It’s about belonging.
And it's for her.

In a world increasingly anxious about saying the wrong thing, where humour is policed and offence is taken before intent is understood, I find myself thinking back to a simpler moment...  one that says more than it first appears.

It’s just a family story, really. A harmless prank involving a horse, a milk cart, and a wide-eyed English girl who thought she was becoming a milkmaid.

But in the telling of it, I see something we’re at risk of losing: the human touch of having a laugh, the unspoken language of love that lives in shared humour. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this,  not just to remember, but to remind.

She came to New Zealand full of love, optimism, and the gentle manners of an English Rose.

My brother had met her while serving in the Hong Kong Police, and she’d agreed;  bravely, some might say madly; to follow him to the bottom of the world, to a country full of hills, sheep, and dodgy accents. What she didn’t know was that joining a downunder family often involves one essential test... not of loyalty or strength, but of humour. Could she take a joke? Could she wear taking the mickey like a badge of honour? Because here, laughter isn’t just fun. It’s family. 

When my brother returned he brought home stories of steamy night markets and chaotic street chases.

Enter his fiancee. Gentle, elegant, a picture of poise, and entirely unprepared for the kind of humour that passes for affection down here.

They were to marry and build a life in Kiwiland. But first, my brother needed a stop-gap job. Our Uncle Pete - legendary for his good heart and wicked sense of fun - ran a milk distribution company at that time and offered to help. But rather than simply say, “You’ll be delivering milk in a truck,” Uncle Pete and my brother saw an opportunity far too delicious to pass up.

“You’ll have to learn horse etiquette,” they told her solemnly. “Old Bess is temperamental. Doesn’t like sudden movements.”

“Old Bess?” she asked.

“The cart horse,” my brother replied, deadpan.

They explained how she’d wear a neat little hat...part of the traditional ‘milkmaid uniform’...and be responsible for guiding the horse while my brother steadied the milk kegs. When customers came out, she’d stop the cart, take the ladle, and pour creamy milk into their jugs. All before 7 am.

Bless her. She nodded earnestly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Not once did she question how New Zealand, by the 1970's, was still using methods that had surely been phased out in Edwardian Britain.

They kept the ruse up just long enough, until they could no longer suppress the laughter. When they finally confessed it was a refrigerated truck delivery job with barely a horse in sight, she took it like a champ. No flounce, no outrage. Just one long-suffering English sigh...and then a smile.

That was her real initiation. Not into the job, but into us. Because down here, teasing is a language of belonging. We mock the ones we love. If we don’t tease you, it probably means we don’t know what to say. But if we do? You’re one of us. It’s rough-edged affection, with a grin behind it.

She went on to build a different life than the one she’d planned. She and my brother later divorced, and she married a truly lovely man. But here’s the part that really tells you everything: even after all that, she stayed in our lives. She passed away some years ago, but her husband; yes, her second husband; is still part of our family. 

That’s the real story. The milk cart prank is funny, sure. But what lasts is not the laughter....it’s the kindness underneath it. The kind that says: no matter where you came from or how the chapters turned out, if you can take the joke, and give it back, you’ve earned your place.

And in our family, that means you’re staying for good.

Belonging is a funny thing...it’s less about who you’re tied to by blood and more about who you laugh with, endure with, and welcome at the table.

Humour, when it comes from love, creates bonds. And the refusal to be offended is often an act of grace. It lets the joke live, and with it, the relationship.

in the end, it wasn’t the milk cart or the horse or the ladle that mattered. It was the laugh, and the way she took it. That one moment of playful deception somehow said, You’re in. And even when the path changed, when the marriage ended and new chapters began, she never really left. Because belonging isn’t always built by blood, but by shared humour, good faith, and knowing when not to take offense. Down here, we don’t always say “I love you” out loud, but we might dress you up like a milkmaid and tell you to mind the horse. And if you laugh? Well, then you’re family.

But here’s the thing: we’re in danger of losing that. These days, everyone’s walking on eggshells, afraid to joke, afraid to laugh. We argue about race, identity, climate... everything...  And in all the noise, we risk forgetting how to gently tease, how to play, how to not be offended. We risk losing the soft, silly glue that holds families, and societies, together.

Humour, especially the teasing kind, is not a weapon when used in love. It’s a handshake. A hug in disguise. A test that says: Can you take a joke? Can you share in this ridiculous thing called life with the rest of us? My sister-in-law passed that test with flying colours and a metaphoric crooked little milkmaid hat perched on her head.

And I worry we’re raising a world where that kind of moment wouldn’t be allowed. That’s not progress. That’s a loss. One we’d do well to see before it’s too late.