Sunday Scribbles XI

SUN-DAY: And it's a sunny Sunday, indeed. There's the odd fluffy cloud in the sky, providing some happy contrast tp the great yellow ball of fire that's providing warmth and light. It's easy to understand why primitive mankind worshipped the sun. It alsooccurs to me that there's very little christianity in the names of our days and months. There are pagan gods' names (and the pagan gods were a lot more fun than the dour, bigoted, and vicious old war god the christians are so fond of), planet gods, and emperor gods.

RITA ANGUS: Jenny and I are going into town today to take a gander at the Rita Angus exhibition. I've been looking forward to this for some time. For foreign readers: Rita Angus is one of New Zealand's foremost artists. She's dead now (and probably still will be tomorrow) but she didn't have to wait for death before her talent was acclaimed.

PUBLIC TRANSPORT. We'd planned on going to the City by Public Transport. yes, we had intended to leave the Mitsubishi at home, and either taking a bus or the ferry to the city. But no. It was going to cost too much. By car - maybe $3 in petrol, and $8 for parking. Public transport would have set us back $10 each, each way. $40, all up. Sod that.

BILL ENGLISH: His greed knows no bounds. It has been reported that he made a special submission to the handers-out-of-cash at Parliamentary Services for an extra $20 a week for cleaning his home. This, while he was exhorting New Zealanders to tighten their belts. The man gives weasels a bad name, and should resign.

SPEAKING OF WHICH.... Sue Bradford has resigned, because she didn't get the leadership of the Green Party. This sounds petty, and an awful lot like the tossing of toys out of the cot. But she covered it well when interviewed at length on the wireless, and I have to say she's quite probably doing the right thing. A pity, though: she is one of the very few politicians anywhere in the world who shows signs of having, and living by, some principles. The working class, unemployed, and children of New Zealand have all benefitted by her presence in the House. Cheers, Sue, and thanks for your service and honesty.

DYING: A dear friend of a dear frind is dying, and she is at his side while he approaches one of the greatest challenges anyone can face. Go well, Gillian. We also received a call this week from my sister-in-law, who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. It occurs to me that I am now old enough to have my contemporaries die. Bummer.

THE LETTERMAN SHOW: I still haven't decided on whether our Prime Minister made an arse of himself by doing stand-up comedy on a cheap and nasty little talk show in the States. Where's the dignity, John?

READING: "The Hunting Party", Enki Bilal.

LISTENING TO: Moody Blues, "To Our Children's Children's Childen". It sort of still holds up, maybe.

WORD OF THE DAY: Disgrace. As in "Bill English is a disgrace".


More "Quiet Woman":

All we needed to do now was cook the veges, and that would be that.

Chapter Four.
By the time Treen and her father arrived home, it was nearly dark. I could hear their laughter as they got out of the car, and – happily – I heard a clink of bottles. I'd spent a bit of the intervening time decorating the room: I had party streamers up, and found a few balloons left over from Useless' last birthday party. He'd supplied the puff, and I'd hung them up.
The door crashed open, and Treen and Chutty – carrying a large plastic bag of very welcome bottles of Lindauer and beer - followed a blizzard of words into the kitchen.
Then Chutty saw Wendy, and the room grew still.
I've known Chutty Wrigley for twenty years, and I had never, up to that point, seen him angry. He is the most even-tempered person I've ever known, but that evening, when he saw Wendy, he grew still, and I could see something in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. It was pure rage. His face was pale, and his hands shook.
“Christ, Wendy,” he said. The sound of his voice sucked all the air from the room. “What piece of shit did that to you? Jesus, Treen, I didn't know it was like this. Why didn't you tell me?” His voice trailed away, and he brought himself under control. “Just give me the word, Wendy. I'll take care of the prick who hurt you.”
Sometimes he impresses me, that man of mine. If this was his reaction at seeing a relative stranger who'd been hurt, I wondered what he'd be like if someone belted me, or one of the kids. I decided then that it would be better that we shouldn't ever know.
“It's all right, Mr Wrigley. Honest.” Said Wendy. “Don't worry about it. Mrs W's taken good care of me. Katrina, too.” She looked down, then back up at him. “And Mr Wrigley? Thanks for not asking if it was Johnno.”
“ 'Course it wasn't Johnno. Blind Freddy'd know that. Hello, Ma,” he said to Mum, and kissed her cheek. His rage was over as quickly as it had appeared. At least – I thought it was.