Sunday Scribbles IIXX

My Roman numerals are getting a tad shakey, now: I think I have it right, but will gladly be corrected. It's supposed to be 18, which I think was shown as two short of twenty. Perhaps I should Google it, but, frankly, the day's too good to be fussing about trifles like that.

December 27th, and logical informs me that the Boxing Day sales should be over. Mind you, logic also insists that the Boxing day sales are a one-day phenomenon, for Boxing Day only. However, such is the commercial frenzy that infects people at this time of year that at least two major retailers started their so-called Boxing Day sales two days prior to Christmas Day. This is the side of Christmas that I despises, Precious.

The advertising got increasingly shrill and desperate. If I were to nominate one TV commercial shill to be the most objectionable for the year, it'd be a close-run thing between the guys who bellows at us for Harvey Norman (so obviously an Australian. Being shouted at is bad enough. being shouted by an Aussie is just, well, nasty.) and the pit-bull who shouts at us for Big Save Furniture. She is beyond nasty. Attractive until she opens her mouth to display her money-stained teeth, she's the epitome of everything that's foul about modern commercialism. So I think she takes the prize this year.

Christmas Day itself was great. My niece and her instant family were in attendance: three terrific kids, allof whom are experimental thinkers. I don't know what school they're going to, but it's obviously one that encourages independant thought. Terrific. And their Dad is one of those sweet, gentle, and loving men who are so often overlooked. Shannon got lucky when she hooked up with him... and the relationship looks solid, too. Rejoice, for happiness is with us.

It's time to think about New Year's resolutions. I haven't made a decent NYR since the year I gave up smoking. This year I've been thinking about nobility a lot, so I should, perhaps, think how I could bring more nobility into my life. On the other hand, I've also been thinking about tolerance, and have been having a lot of fun becoming less tolerant of the things that really piss me off: hypocracy, shonky punctuation, and intolerance. So perhaps I'll just resolve to become less tolerant of intolerance.

I intend to get a Tee Shirt printed for next Christmas: I Wish You a God-free Christmas.

Happy New Year, everyone. Happy New Decade! May the grace of Offler, the Crocodile God, shine upon you.

Listening to: Jimmy Buffet, "Songs You Know By Heart". Perfect summer's day listening.

Reading: Still getting through "My Year of Living Biblically". It's a book all atheists should read. The author is an atheist, but his year of living biblically is giving him some terrific insights into the value of the Bible. I've read the Bible around 20 times (I can't see how anyone could call themselves an atheists if they're not able to describe what they don't believe in) and I know where this chap's coming from.

New York, is one answer...

Word of the Day: resolution. Jenny's going to read all of Dante's great canto, "The Divine Comedy". I wish I'd thought of that.



More Rats, folks!


The horse snorted, and lifted her hoof. Jayne gasped in astonishment, and Arthur glared at her. His eyes told her she was not to make a sound. She nodded her apology. He turned back to the horse, and ran his left down the great horse’s leg, to the inside, and he cupped the great hoof, supporting it while he straddled it, and caught it between his thighs, his back to the great animal. He never once stopped talking. “My now, that’s a fine hoof, Beth, and a great and fine piece of work you are.”
The horse farted.
“And for that, I and the great Lord above thankyou, Beth,” said the boy. Jayne judged his age at eighteen. She was over by two years. She listened, fascinated.
“Let’s see now, Beth. This’ll be your problem. You’ve a nail caught and twisted here, and a nice river stone’s caught in your frog. That’ll hurt, so it will.” He reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a pair of pincers, and a clasp knife. Grasping the horse’s hood tighter in his thighs, he opened the knife and dug into the soft flesh at the centre of the hoof. The horse muttered and grumbled, and the boy continued his talk, gently calming her. A stone flicked away and pinged off the anvil, and the boy closed the knife and put it back in his pocket. “There’s a place for everything, and everything has its place, ain’t that right, Beth-my-girl,’ he said. The ongoing commentary amused Jayne, and she found herself wondering if the boy was simple. She watched as he took the pincers, and nipped the nail in half, then drew what was left straight from the hoof. Then he spent a couple of minutes with his file, cleaning and tidying the he hoof’s rim, so he’d have a clean surface for the shoes. “There you go, my girl,” he said, and fished into his pocket for a length of string, which he used to measure around the hoof, which he then eased to down to the floor.
“That was ama-“ started Jayne.
“Ma-am, please. Quiet.” Jayne shut up, wondering at the authority in the boy’s voice. He moved back to the great white face, and rubbed it for a moment, his strong hands rough against the horse’s muzzle. Then he kissed her between the nostrils, and told her she was a good girl, and she could go outside for a few minutes. Beth rolled her eyes at him again, backed out of the smithy, and stopped. Jayne gasped, again. She’d owned Bethesda for five years, and had never been able to get her to walk backwards. Not easily, anyway.
“Now then, ma’am. I reckon I have a blank here that’ll fit her. Are you comfortable with me doing the job, or would you rather we waited for Grampa Smith?”
“A smith called Smith?” smiled Jayne, genuinely amused.
“Aye ma’am. Many’s the long laugh we’ve had over supper with that wee jest.” Arthur’s face was as blank as a brick. The woman smiled, acknowledging she’d been well put in her place. Simple? I don’t think so, she thought.
“What’s your name?” She asked.
“Eh? Oh, sorry, ma’am. I’m Arthur. Arthur Tomlinson.” He stuck his hand out awkwardly, and Jayne saw him for the age he was. “I’m Grampa Smith’s Godson and ward.”
“Oh,” said Jayne, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She heard the volumes of information in that small phrase: Godson and ward. There was little doubt that the boy was an orphan, and that this Grampa Smith was a man who took his promises seriously. She took his hand, and shook it. “I think,” she said, “that I’d like to have you do the job.”
“Good oh, ma’am,” he replied.

And about time, too!

It's been a long and hard week. It's also been a very good week. Firstly, my brother and sister-in-law came and stayed for a couple of days. Explanation: Jeff's based in Seoul (yes, he's my Seoul Brother) and this was the week he turned 60 - so he came over to gather friends and famille about, and get trousered. So, they landed in Auckland, stayed with us, then motored on.

I've dribbled on about nobility in the past, and will no doubt do so again. Let it be said right now that the Jeff has strong elements of nobility about him. His heart is in the best place possible, and it's pumping well, thank you.

Cousin Mike and his lovely Jude came and stayed for a few days as well. He's Sydney / Canberra based. Despite this, he is one of the finest people I know. His lovely Judith is right there alongside him. They're fabulous people, and I count myself privileged to call them family. I count myself 'specially privileged to call them friends.

We travelled down to Napier for the celebrations. I remain smug, as I will always be younger than my brother. This means, however, that he will get his hands in a Gold Card before I do. Not a bad trade-off, though.

The party was excellent. Jeff's daughters were all there. Leah is a stunningly beautiful creature, and is also disarmingly lovely in nature. Renee is equally as gorgeous, but in a more.. earthy? way. Tamar hasn't been seen in a while, which is a shame: she has a gentleness to her that is enviable. She's had a few mental health problems, but it does seem that she's coming through - and we all rejoice at that. Her son, Israel, is a great young man: almost too much personality for one person: fiercely intelligent, and very protective of his Mum. Speaking of Mums - mine was there, fit and strong. Dad's been gone for 9 months now, and she's not feeling the strain as much. She dreamed of him last night, for the first time since he died. I don't know if that's relevant or significant, but it feels as though it should be. My sisters are wonderful, as they always are, and my brothers-in-law are superb specimens of, well, English manhood. Yes, they're both refugees from the Mother Country.



We've enjoyed a couple of political Teacup Storms lately. Skeletor, or Rodney Hide as he's known on Earth, apologised after being caught snouting at the trough a bit too deeply. He is a despicable indiviudual, and I am sure he wouldn't have bothered apologising if he hadn't seen some political gain in it. He has the sincerity of a frozen pea. Have I mentioned that I find him loathsome?

Hone Harawera, on the other hand, is simply a dick. I actually like the man, and really wish his fighting arm a lot of strength. His cause is just, his heart is purish, and he has an unerring instinct for playing into the hands of his enemies. He's apologied for the foul language, and he's one who didn't use the weaselly "if" word, as in "If I've caused offence, I apologise." He did use the "I apologise for causing offence" line, which is startlingly original. However, he hasn't apologised for ripping off the tax-payer. The trip to paris remains there. He did blow it away with his choice phraseology. After a motherfucker or two, who cares about Paris?



LISTENING TO: David Gilmour, "On An Island".

READING: Christian Cameron again: the follow-up to his last book. this one's called "Storm of Arrows', and promises mucho bloodshed.

WORD OF THE DAY: Cruelty. Those bastards at that Lion Park in Whangerei need their bollocks cut off. I cannot believe that anyone would / could / can / whatever de-claw a tiger or a lion. Barbarism.

RATS Continues

“Sounds fair. An English thing?”
“American, I believe.”
“Ah.”
Actually, the old man was pretty well on the right path. Jayne Francis was an atheist in an age when it wasn’t at all fashionable, so she had simply announced to Father O’Leary, when he came calling, that she was a Callithumpian. Many years before, she'd read - in the Weekly News - an hysterical account of the activities of a Callithumpian township in South Dakota, and thought she liked the sound of it. And yes – regular festivals of beer-drinking and the letting off of cannons and sundry artillery pieces was de-rigueur for a Callithumpian in good standing. Hence, the mortar.
Arthur Tomlinson had been a regular guest at Jayne Francis’ Sunday teas for a number of years. She had seen something in the reserved and ill-at-ease young man that she liked when she first met him, and she went out of her way to include him in the activities of the town. Through Arthur, Jayne met young Timothy Copthorne, a tearaway lad who’d since taken to hanging about the smithy’s workshop after school. Arthur had taken the lad under his wing, just as he’d been cared for by Grampa Smith. He taught the lad the things he knew: how to shoot, how to bend and shape metal, how to walk in the bush and leave no trace of yourself behind you. He taught the lad the value of stillness, of going within and making yourself invisible.
“Remember, Tim. Movement makes you visible. An animal’s eye captures movement, and focuses on it. Same as a man’s eye: you can be in a room full of people, even with your ginger hair, and not be noticed. All it takes is to be still, and to think yourself into being unnoticeable.”
The boy thought this was bullshit, and said so. Arthur had told Tim to shut his eyes for a count of ten, and then to look for him. They had been in Ffyfe’s Gulley at the time – land that Arthur knew well – and the lad had taken the challenge.
He lost.
Within minutes he had started to panic at being out in the bush alone, and was coming close to tears. Arthur reached out, and touched the boy on the shoulder. “I moved no more than ten yards from you, Tim. If you can learn how to do this, you’ll be in charge of your environment. No man will be able to reach you.’
The boy had been stunned into silence. A few years later, he was to scream into Arthur’s collar “You said that no man could reach me Arthur! Oh, God, Arthur, help me. Help me!”
That same boy was now excitedly helping Jayne Francis load the mortar for the final shot of the evening. Swab the barrel, to extinguish any smouldering debris, keeping out of the way of the touch-hole: unburnt powder can flare and jet back through there sigth enough power to fry an eye in its socket. Push down the small package of gunpowder, wrapped in brown waxed-paper. A coil of twine goes down the barrel, then the cricket ball, then another ring of rope. Ram it all down, hard. Jam the fuse into the touch-hole, and light it. Run back for safety. Just because this gun hadn’t exploded yet didn’t mean it wasn’t going to.
Twelve seconds. Flat bang, fizz, sparkle, flame looping up, high into the heavens, then falling with an angry hiss into the river.
“Reckon the taniwha’s getting annoyed yet?”
“The old feller down at the pa says it takes more’n seven shots to get the taniwha riled up, and Miss Jayne has never shot more’n six.”
Rev. Jackson down at the Anglican church, Father O’Leary at St. Francis’, and Fred Willoughby and his missus at the Methodist chapel didn’t think much of the taniwha, but pretty well everyone else in town was half convinced it was there, at the knuckle of the river where it turned westward. The local Maori kept well clear of the area, and declared it tapu. And since the Brown boys had drowned there – with young Aaron Brown’s body never being recovered – every child in Northridge enjoyed a secret and delicious frisson of fear when going anywhere near the troubled waters at the turn.
Actually, the water roiled and tumbled at the bend in the river because of an outcropping of rock that disturbed the flow of the water, making the area dangerous for swimmers and canoeists alike. It was also not unreasonable for anyone to think that there might be a water spirit there: anything, really, that kept kids and fools away and out of danger was worth promulgating.
And so, every year, on November 5th, Jayne Francis pelted the sky with just six flaming cricket balls, and the taniwha’s slumber remained undisturbed.