It's a 1946 Cadillac. About a year ago, when Jenny and I were still in Taupo, I walked home after seeing this particular car. I told her that I'd seen the most beautiful car ever...
And now it's been featured in a magazine. It's (the car) owned by a very lucky (and obviously reasonably well-off) chap somewhere in Auckland. I think it's Auckland,anyway: I have seen the car once here. The magazine article very wisely didn't mention the owner's address, for fear of people like me stalking him...
The car had a 5-litre engine, and probably consumes a litre of petrol for every lamp-post it passes. Apparently the chassis, gearbox, and motor came from a WWII tank that Cadillac made during the war years. They just stuck this beautiful, gorgeous Art Deco body onto it....
I now have to figure out how to move photographs. The big problem with learning something is, of course, it tends to lead on to other things you have to learn in order to make the thing you originally learnt work properly. I had carefully put the cursor where I wanted the second picture, then did the loady-picture thing, and the second one became the first, and... oh, I don't know.
It's been a while since I had a haircut, and it's getting a tad shaggy. Jenny suggested I get a trim, and told me that I didn't want it cut short. Hmm. I could have sworn I did. I think she's more concerned about the ebbing of the hairline than I am. I couldn't, frankly, give a toss that I'm going bald. I do give a damn that I'm starting to grow what looks like the start of a comb-over....
It'll be the first anniversary of my Dad's death on the 22nd. And Mum's cat, Bella, has just upped and done a runner, so she's being left on her own again. Not good.
READING: Still on the Larry Niven book: gosh, it's good to read some good hard sci-fi. Really, really good. Speaking of sci-fi, who's read any of Brian Herbert / Thingy "dune" follow-ups? Brian's father must be spinning in his grve. They are dreadful.
LISTENING TO: Wait for it. Wa.....it. The Shadows! Actually, it's obvious that Hank Marvin was a really good guitarist. Their drummer, however, would have made a good house-painter.
WORD OF THE DAY: beauty. There's so much in my life: Seeing Jenny at the end of the day, getting an email from Gill, seeing a fine piece of sculpture like that Caddy....
More RATS. Got another 3,000 words done the other day, and correctedome of what you're about to read. Still the first draught, though. Draft?
Now, she knew she could also be here and enjoy herself.
The boy poured the tea, then stepped out to give a carrot to the horse, which nuzzled his hand with her big, soft mouth.
The Lee Enfield .303 Mark 3 rifle that was issued to the British infantry during the First World War was a formidable weapon. It was such a good design that it would remain in service with some countries for a further 80 years. In the hands of a skilled rifleman, it could throw twelve precisely aimed shots a minute. A very skilled rifleman could beat that by another five rounds. Like all good man-killing weapons, it had an aesthetic appeal: nearly 45 inches in length (a little over 1.14 metres), its butt and stock was almost balways carved froak, and occasionally walnut or hickory. The butt was hollow, and contained the maintenance and cleaning tools: the pull-through, the oil, the screwdrivers. The Mark 3 model, which Arthur used to such devastating effect in France, had a stock that extended the length of the barrel, and was cinched tight by metal straps. Just forward of the bolt and ejector the leaf-blade sight could be adjusted to allow a good rifleman to fire a shot accurately out to 300 yards. In the hands of a superb rifleman, the weapon was deadly to 1,200 yards. Arthur was an excellent shot. Timothy Copthorne was superb. The box magazine that both men used held ten rounds of .303 ammunition. The cartridge case was 2.15 inches in length, and held a 36.5 grain charge, throwing the lighter Mark 7 174 grain bullet from the muzzle at 2,440 feet per second. That’s a fairly hefty slug of metal spinning through the air at 743 metres each and every second.
Whatever was hit by the .303 round tended to stay hit.
At the weapon’s muzzle was a clip designed to take the number 9 pig-sticker bayonet: a fourteen inch rod of needle-pointed steel that would puncture any good will.
Grampa Smith had made the scones earlier in the day.
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