Sunday Scribbles XXVI

Ain't it just a kick in the pants? Good news one week, bad news the next. I still haven't got the thing sorted in mymind, but at least I'm coming to terms with it. Adam and gabrielle seemed so genuinely happy at their weddin', just 16 or so months ago. I don't know the whys and wherfore, but at least they seem to be behaving well. I wish I could say that had been my experience, but I can't.

When I awoke this morning, it was to the tune of the Dr Who theme. I had been dreaming that I was in the Doctor's latest adventure. It was a Cybermen story, set in the bowels of the BBC itself: I had been invited to do a four hour mid-day shift on a BBC radio station, and the metalmen chose that time to invade. I was up for it, however, and vanquished the foe... with a little help from the Doctor and his sonic screwdriver.

I don't know how many people dream entire TV episodes or movies, but I often do. I remember them vividly for oh, an hour or so, then they fade. I should really write them down, but the fact is I'm busy right now writing other shit down. I'm working on a new project that's reallygot my blood fizzing. In fact, I'm going to spend an hour or three adding to it today. I have to say that it's about the best thing I've written in a long time: Jenny agrees with me, too - and that's important.

The cricket's on free-to-air TV, where it belongs, and we've had two thrilling games. At the end of the first innings yesterday I really didn't care about the final result (although another victory would have been nice..) because the standard of the Black Caps' fielding was so outstanding. I know you don't get any points for winning that battle, but if you did, yesterday's score would have been NZ1, Australia 1. Neither side batted well, but both sides fielded brilliantly. Best batsman was,of course, our Danny. Jenny and I have followed Vettori's career with glee ever since he was first capped.

Another perfect day in paradise. The weather's just superb. Might get to the beach today..

We're on hollerday, too: a week off. We're off to see Roland in Tauranga for a day or two: I'm looking forward to doing some body surfing at the Mount. I'll let you know how much of a dick I make of myself.

I have to say I'm tired of pain. Physically, I've been in a lot of pain over the past couple of months. I shudder to think what it would be like without the modern arthritis drugs. I shake my head in wonder at what my Dad must have sufferede: his arthritis was so much worse than mine.

LISTENING TO: Nina Simone, "Best of". YUM! I heard an interview with her daughter, who's appearing at the Art's Festival in Wellington (sob. Can't get there. Sigh. Weep.) and they played a couple of her tracks. Sorry, but it's not a case oflike Mother, like daughter. The daughter, who cimply calls herself Simone, is more of a WhitneybloodyHouston warbler. Very good, mind you.

READING: I'm on the last 100 pages of Stephen Ambrose's "D-Day". Reading the horrow of what happened to the American troops on Omaha Beach would keep anyone awake. By contrast, the others troops got away so easily. Thankfully.

WATCHING: Stephen Fry tonight.

RATS:

...when the grimmest news Amy had ever known had been brought brutally to her.
She'd since been around almost every day to check the mail, fearful that her beloved Arthur had heard her news. Jayne tapped the envelopes, and set them aside. She went to her telephone, and picked up the ear-piece.
“Nancy?” she called out. “Put me through to the Copthorne farm, would you?” Nancy, one of the town's three telephone operators, called back “Right away, Miz Jayne.”
The new Exchange, in the back of Jayne's General Store, was a marvel of modern technology. With it, Jayne could be talking to the Store-man at the big Farmer's Department Store in Auckland in just half an hour. It was, however, horrifically expensive: a two minute call could cost as much as three shillings. Local calls, however, were free – and the Copthorne farm was just on the edge of the small Exchange's boundary.
The phone was answered by Amy and Tim Copthorne's father, Ausgustine, with his usual gruff “Working.”
“It's Jayne, August. Good news.” Every time she called anyone in town she'd let them know straight away why she was calling. If she had news, she'd forewarn them. As Jayne saw all the town's telegrams first, she was therefore the first to know if there was any bad news from France.
“Good news? That'd be a change, Jayne.”
Four months ago, Timothy Copthorne, Augustine's flame-haired son of just 17 winters, had shipped out for France.