Farewell to a Friend

Earlier to-day, bearing in mind that overnight we’d had 55 mm of rain (two inches in the ‘old’ language) and that the weatherman was predicting reasonably brrrrr nippy breeze conditions, I walked across the yard to the greenhouse. Now, I know that any man worth his salt has a ‘shed’, in many parts of the world. Here, I do not have a shed, but there is a greenhouse, which is far better – a combination indoor garden, where I can stand up or sit down under relatively dry conditions even in the fiercest of storms, and it doubles as a sort-of ‘workshop’ on an agricultural sense.

Now, the wall cladding to some of the panels is in need of replacement, because of treatment metered out by the Labradors whilst they were still puppies and they believed that they must hunt down and destroy anything that moves in the wind, even side panels to greenhouses. So, we don’t have ideal growing conditions there yet, but a crop of tomatoes and a few Marigolds have survived the last season there.

I started pottering around.

Now, when I was a lad I understood that ‘pottering’ by grand-dad was a euphemistic term which described they way he tried to dodge grand-ma whenever he could, where he could sit and do nothing but smoke and snooze. If asked what grand-dad was doing, without actually knowing the meaning, you’d confidently reply

“He’s pottering down in the shed, I think.”

Potter: I was always under the impression that the word relates to the trade of making clay pots on a potter’s wheel. However, the Free Dictionary defines it as “mess about, fiddle (informal), tinker, dabble, fritter, footle (informal), poke along, fribble.”

So, as I no longer partake in the burning of the tobacco leaf, and I only feel drowsy and sleepy in the late afternoons, the pottering ‘thing’ was a bit of problem for me. Instead, I fetched gardening gloves and secateurs, and set out to remove the hanging tomato planters and the spent dried-out stalks of the 2013/14 tomato plants, snipping them into bite-sized chunks for the compost heap, as well as other past-sell-by-date plants, leaving empty plant containers and seedlings.

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(Above): Empty and damaged greenhouse viewed from the entrance door.

Whilst doing further ‘house-keeping’ in the greenhouse, I stumbled across two critters – nothing unusual for a regular gardener – but, then, as you will be aware, I am not a regular gardener. My interest was caught by a shiny bullet-shaped being in a silken thread. On closer investigation, it turned out to be a sort-of plastic pupa-thingy, but certainly a living being and a shiny living being, at that.

I looked at the pupa-thing and tried to categorise him-her-it. You know, like they do. The scientists are especially good at putting creatures into little boxes, with all sorts of long Latin names to identify them. I like to keep things simple. There are family, friends, and then there are others. Who are they? Are they, by definition, strangers? W.B.Yeats wrote “There are no strangers. Only friends you haven’t yet met.”

Let’s take that one step further. Man’s best friend, the Dog. Is he a “friend”? If so, then I must conclude that friends are not limited to the human sort. And a Cat? and a Budgie? and what about a Gold Fish? and, yes, what about a Silk-Worm.

You can see where this going, can’t you? We live in a world where it’s no longer PC to label people in a manner which may been as degrading. The vertically challenged… you know the rest – a long list. I prefer to label them “friends”, irrespective of what type of creature they are.

Therefore, this pupa-thingy is actually a newly-made friend.

“Hi Pupa-thingy,” I greeted him-her-it, “from now on I will call you ‘Pupa-thingy’ until I learn your official name.”

I took Pupa-thingy’s picture, as pictured above.

I looked at Pupa-thingy, and realised that this bullet-shaped pod will develop into another creature-thing, and eat all our future seedlings and tomatoes and stuff. I paused to consider the probability. Hmmmm.

I pressed my boot on the Pupa-thingy. Greenish juice squirted out and the Pupa-thingy was no longer a thingy. It must have been one of the shortest-lived friendships in history. My newest friend was no longer a friend.

 

Four Months

I must admit that it’s such a cliché using the expression ”Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?” but it is rather difficult to express one’s amazement at the apparent short time one has been active with a particular project (in our case, ‘life’), yet the calendar shows it to be a tad more than four months!

Yes, Christmas Day night/ Boxing Day morning 25/26th December – I am still confused, as our flight touched down, taxied towards the terminal and disembarkation of the passengers all commenced, as far as we were  concerned, it was already Boxing Day, yet the rubber stamps on our passports, which were clearly executed well after midnight (ie: on 26 December) are stamped 25th. On the 25th we were still “airside” of passport control – just wondering. If that is the case, we landed at 23:59:00-ish on 25 December – you can’t cut it much finer! The main thing is I will always remember where I spent most of Christmas Day 2013: Answer in the air over the Southern Atlantic as a (paying) guest of Qantas.

So, to put the matter to bed once and for all, let’s go with the rubber stamps, and use 25. as the date of our landing on silver fern territory. It’s a far neater number, and, into the bargain, the 25th sort-of represented a new beginning for every month, as we used to get monthly salaries paid on the 25th (what expression did you use – I encountered  the ‘Ghost would walk’, the ‘Pie-maker would chuck out the crusts’.

Water MIlestone

When viewed against the backdrop of world events, nay, local events, nay, when viewed against simply most stuff, this may not be very significant. I look at it with different eyes, maybe slightly teary eyes.

Or is that the effect of the raindrops on my specs? I’m not sure.

Our water-tank and the reserve overflow tank are both filled to capacity, and the excess water is running into the waterlogged garden.

Monday 8:00 28 April 2014.

And the rain is bucketing down, as if the winter of 2014 has arrived a month or two earlier than expected… I can almost see eyes turned ceiling-wards and virtually hear the under-breath sighs of “He’s on the old water-horse again…”

I have kept the importance of sufficient rainfall and adequate stocks of drinking water no secret. It will be an on-going preoccupation. But please bear in mind that preoccupation is not really a bad thing.

However, I believe that we are not primitive regarding the supply of potable water. Allow me to illustrate. Give the following quick-quiz a try by answering the following questions with a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’:

1.  I am 100% sure that the water supplied by the local authority (water company, municipality, town council, whatever) is perfectly pure, clean, unadulterated and uncontaminated.

2.  I am 100% sure that the chemicals added to our drinking water by the suppliers are 100% safe for our consumption and will leave absolutely no harmful residues in our bodies.

3.  I am 100% sure that there is absolutely no chance that some weirdo subversive person has been able to infiltrate (if you will pardon the pun) the water supply network

4.  I am 100% sure that the suppliers (water company, municipality, town council) will be able to continue supplying me with enough water, irrespective of the extent of population explosion, rate of urbanisation and increase in industrial water offtake.

If you could answer each of the 4 simple questions with a ‘Yes’ without the slightest hesitation, then maybe you should re-consider whether we ‘raincatchers’ are really as primitive as you thought.

25 April…

From “The Centenary of the Last Ordinary 25 April” by Virginia Gow (Web Adviser in the WW100 Programme Office):

Anzac Day this year is the centenary of the last time that 25 April was just a day like any other day – before it became a signature date in New Zealand history.

Here in the WW100 Programme Office we are acutely aware of the meaning of Anzac Day as a day of remembrance, not just for those who served and fell at Gallipoli, but for those who have served in all conflicts to defend our country. This day next year will be one of the early milestones for the four-year First World War centenary programme.

Next year, on 25 April, it will be 100 years since New Zealand and Australian soldiers – the ANZACs – landed on the Gallipoli Peninsula, in present-day Turkey, during the First World War. The aim was to capture the Dardanelles strait, which would make it possible to attack Constantinople, the capital of the Ottoman Empire. But at the end of the campaign Gallipoli was still held by the enemy and thousands of soldiers from both sides had lost their lives – more than 100 New Zealanders died on 25 April 1915 alone.

In May 1915, as the official news of the casualties from the Gallipoli campaign reached the New Zealand public via newspapers, the Christchurch Press published an article titled ‘New Zealand’s Noble Dead’. It made note of the significance of the Gallipoli campaign as a turning point – from a time of peace to a sobering awareness of the impact of war.

http://ww100.govt.nz/

(Above): embossed into the centre “RSA Welfare” with the accompanying white paper tag reading “NZ Returned and Services Association” and on the reverse, simply “Thank you”

ANZAC is an acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Anzac Day occurs on 25 April. It commemorates all New Zealanders killed in war and also honours returned servicemen and women.The date itself marks the anniversary of the landing of New Zealand and Australian soldiers – the Anzacs – on the Gallipoli Peninsula in 1915

DEA finds stashes at Chartwell

Yesterday, our internal DEA embarked on a campaign to hunt down various stashes at Chartwell, to eradicate the scourge once and for all.

(Above): After about an hour of checking every nook and cranny, we ended up with this fairly large pile of Nightshade. It would be foolhardy to dump this on the composting heap, so we decided to snip the plants into small manageable lengths and dispose of them the the domestic garbage wheelie bin.

According to Te Ara (Encyclopaedia of NZ), Black Nightshade and related species are probably responsible for more plant-poisoning admissions to hospital than any other plant in New Zealand. The unripe green berries of these common weeds are poisonous.

Many admissions are for suspected poisoning by Deadly Nightshade (Atropa belladonna), but this plant is very uncommon in New Zealand, and the cause is usually Black Nightshade (Solanum nigrum). This very common weed is often mistakenly called Deadly Nightshade, although it is much less toxic.

One might think that the berries are the nasty part of the plants, but apparently the most toxic is the roots, followed by the stems, then the leaves, and then only the berries.

Although apparently dogs can only have adverse effects if the plants are intentionally fed to them, we thought it best to eradicate all plants as far as possible, to be on the safe side.

(Above): A section of a plant showing green and black berries.

(Above): Six plastic bags represent the results of our DEA raid stand ready for dumping with the domestic garbage.

When it rains, it pours!

The Chartwell household/ drinking water tank of rainwater collected from the roof has a nominal capacity of 20,000 litres. Based on average estimated daily water usage of approximately 600 litres, this represent just over 30 days’ supply.

As anyone who relies on the forces of nature can confirm, you need to be water-wise-aware and you should best keep tabs on the comings and goings – the rainfall and the usage. You could, as has happened to the neighbours across the way, end up paying for a tanker-load or two of water at the rate of $360 per trip!

We keep very accurate rainfall data, so the amount of rain is simple to track – to convert these millimetres to litres is a bit of a sticky point, as there may be leaks, and also the garden tank on the other side of the house also gets a small share. We will investigate that a bit more fully after attending to the plumbing there. In total every millimetre of rain should represent 250 litres of usable water. Using my long-lost arithmetic, one would need 80mm of rain to fill an empty tank.

We also take readings of the water level in the tank using a simple calibrated home-made dipstick generally immediately after a rainfall period, and record the readings with the rainfall data. Over the past week, we’ve had gentle drizzle-showers on and off.

This morning when I saw the reading above 20,000, I said to myself, “Hello, hello, at 20,450 litres shouldn’t the tank be overflowing into the reserve tank?”

It was really a rhetorical self-quiz, because I immediately went around the back to query the matter with the overflow system manager. The overflow system manager is a grand name for an 80mm diameter PVC which runs down at a slant from the main tank to the reserve tank. It sounds a lot more posh is I call it a “system manager” and not simply a plastic pipe. The pipe is cunningly hidden from view by a forest of tall hydrangeas.

I couldn’t see the manager clearly through the dense foliage, but I listened for water running into the empty reserve vessel. Nothing at all.

Wait a mo… Over there where the pipe exits the main tank, I detect something like dripping-running water. What the…

I grab the secateurs and start pruning the offensive barricaded area. When a path is finally clear, I can see the water flowing from the outlet. But not inside the pipe via the system manager!  It was leaking at the exit hole next to the pipe!

Bad naughty system manager! We will have to schedule a disciplinary hearing for you…

 
(Above) Clearly one could see the (cleaned) path of the rivulet of water running down the outside of the main tank.

(Above) The whole setup was wobbly and moved around freely. The exit pipe was not glued to the outlet either. Someone had previously used a silicone mastic as sealant, without much success.

I drove down to Farmlands in Waikanae in search of a threaded collar and ring-nut, plus a waterproof sealant. Nope, no luck – I need to go through to Param to the plumbing centre. Tomorrow is Anzac Day, so with many shops closed,that sounds like a Saturday trip, I guess.

(Above): Back home, if I wiggle the outlet just so, I can guide the path of most of the overflow, with only a small fraction leaking past.

With cunning use of my knowledge of hydraulics and my ever-so-slightly renowned engineering skills, I have devised and fitted a Heath-Robinson-type “gasket” to the outlet pipe, which seems as if it will do the trick until Saturday. It’s actually a strip of compressed newspaper…)

Let’s Make Downbread

Bet you haven’t. But I can see the hordes rushing to the speciality stores to get themselves a loaf or two… Or, perhaps not.

I am not personally all that familiar with the term “downbread”, but then, unlike Dr Who, I was never near the 16th  century, or even before.

In 1590 a guy called Thomas Harriot said of the locals (‘Red Indians’ a.k.a Native Americans) in North Carolina, (the spelling is correct): “Chestnvts there are in diuers places great store: some they vse to eate rawe, some they stamp and boil to make spoonmeate, and with some being sodden they make such a manner of downbread as they vse their beanes.”

Apparently, because there is no gluten, bread made entirely of chestnut flour does not rise like wheat flour, and was referred to as “downbread” in earlier centuries.

Although I have no intention of making downbread, but having a small stash of chestnuts (actually, to be more accurate a very tiny stash – oK, in fact a couple of nuts) but I thought some readers may be interested, just in case…

(Above): We ended up with a very small crop of fertile nuts for the 2013/2014 season as there is only one tree which apparently results in infertile nuts. We got tons of threesomes instead of the correct pairs in the pods.

Chestnut flour costs approx $25US. To import it will naturally depend on freight and duties, so you can see that it certainly ain’t cheap. To make chestnut flour, I suspect that you probably need a bushel or two, so you’ll need a few trees.

Either cut a slit in the chestnuts or cut them in half. Place them on a pan and put into the oven to roast until the shells will peel away easily (about 40-45 minutes). Remove the shells and the papery covering (pellicle) and let them cool. Freeze the nuts for about 45 minutes. Grind the frozen chestnuts until you reach a meal-like consistency. Store the flour in an airtight container, preferably in the freezer. To make the flour in a historic setting, or in the absence of a power source, a mortar and pestle should work well.

I only came across these instructions after I’d completed my boiling, so there. Here is what I did:

Step 1: Select sufficient healthy raw chestnuts for processing. Say about 4 kilos. I didn’t have the luxury of following any selection process. Just a handful or two. Something tells me we will not be able to make downbread – not even half a downbun, really.

As an aside, do you suppose the early population in America were into buns? Like over the weekends, maybe? Did they like downtoast? I can’t find any references…

(Above) Step 2: Using a breadknife, cut a cross into the hard leather-like skin, to make peeling easier later on. At that stage, you could say that you’ve got Hot Cross Nuts!

(Above) Step 3: Place you Cross nuts in a saucepan, cover with water and add 5 teaspoons of table salt. If you have a bushel of nuts, naturally you’ll need a tad more salt – not sure how much you’ll need… Boil for about 15 to 20 minutes (or longer for the bushel folk? – I’d play it by ear.)

(Above) Step 4: When the nuts are done, drain the water and allow the nuts to cool sufficiently to handle without causing pain (to your fingers, silly, not the nuts).

At this stage, I’d fallen prey to the temptation to have a chew – what a pleasant surprise when I discovered that the earlier experience in my youth was probably because of poor preparation or peeling and cleaning of the cooked nuts.

I found them distinctly tasty with a slight “floury” texture – which we now know is a property and not a defect. I am not sure whether the brown membrane layer is the pellicle, or whether that was the slightly thicker layer which I’ve already removed. They are currently cooling down, so I have some minutes before I need to make any life-changing decision…

Apparently the flour can be used as a partial replacement for the white flour in Chestnut Bread, it can be blended with milk and spices to make a Chestnut Soup. Using half Chestnut flour and half wheat flour, one can make Chestnut Muffins.

There is also Chestnut Pudding and Chestnut Cake, but, let’s face it, if you had an unlimited supply of chestnuts and no supermarket to supply you with any sort of flour, you too, would probably try all these things!

Hobbits, Habits and Rabbits

The moon is hanging on to its dominance over the sky with the morning star in attendance as the sun rallies for control over the tree tops. One might swear Shakespeare is lurking here at 7:00am and 7ºC this clear April morning at Chartwell.

One might also be forgiven for thinking so, if one was standing next to me at this moment (with gumboots against the frosty grass), because the surrounds are indeed so crisp, quiet and Shakespearean.

The trees are all dressed in Autumn uniforms, with a huge proportion of their leaves having been shed in preparation of the imminent June winter. Obviously the evergreens are the obstinate delinquents, who have no firm beliefs in these things.

(Above): One of my favourites – an intricate pattern of branches: quite possibly a painting artist’s dream?

(Above): I have indicated that I am not much of a knowledgeable gardener, let alone anything resembling an arborist, but this tree has undergone an amazing transformation in the past month or so. You do not need to be an expert in tree matters to be able to appreciate the changing beauty of nature.

(Above): Not far from Goat Hill, I stumble on this small clump of field mushrooms. I have also seen numerous colonies of larger brownish-fawn ones on other days.

 
(Above): I am not a knowledgeable mushroomist either, but the neighbours have told me to stay clear of those with white undersides, and that brown undersides are Ok. These have white undersides, so I will leave well alone – I am not really that fond of mushrooms… By the way, an expert in mushrooms is known as a mycologist, but I didn’t want to appear too Shakespearean so early in the morning…

(Above): This guy growing nearer the pine trees, is silvery. Drat – white is bad, brown is Ok – what about silver?

(Above): I finally reach the object of my stroll – this is my proposed Winnie The Poo retreat. Why I call it this will become obvious at a future date. On the southern side of the driveway we have a small copse, which, up to now has only been used by the dogs as a hunting ground. Hunting for what? Who knows? Maybe hobbits or rabbits, but they’ve caught neither so far.

 
(Above): My Hobbit Tree, with its interesting brown bark. I have cleared a narrow walking pathway which goes past the Hobbit Tree, so that he is always close by.

(Above): It is almost impossible to walk anywhere in the property without a dog being within a few yards. Here Sophie is investigating whether anything untoward may be lurking in the undergrowth. No rabbits here, she reports. I want to cover the black soil of the pathway with chip and bark to give a drier and cleaner underfoot experience.

(Above): I was thinking of converting this little path into a sitting / talking / thinking / reading / doing absolutely nothing retreat. It will disturb the minimum of plant life, is cool and totally secluded, protected from wind and rain. A bird feeder would probably be much appreciated here – there are a few cute little fantails which frequent the copse.

If anything develops out of this idea, you’ll surely be hearing about it here.

The Night of the Possum

This blog is just that – a simple blog. It is not a celebration of any sort, nor a victory tale. It contains no sadness, but it has elements of compassion. It should be considered a local news report – nothing more and nothing less.

Unlike Night of the Iguana, our Night of the Possum does not star Ava Gardner, nor Deborah Kerr, nor Richard Burton, and unlike Night of the Iguana, the theme of our night’s events do not revolve around a priest and three woman, but rather around two Labradors and a common brushtail possum (Trichosurus vulpecula).

It was a time of beginnings and of ends, a time of joy and of sadness, a time of defeat and of victory, a time of cacaphonic sounds and noises and of deathly silence. It was neither good, nor was it bad, but it will always remain the Night of the Possum in my memory.

On this day Sunday 20 April sixty-seven years ago, I was born in East London, a harbour town in the eastern Cape Province of the then Union of South Africa. Therefore this day is the anniversary of the day of my birth. A birthday is not necessarily  an over-joyous occasion at my stage in life, as one appreciates that you have already celebrated more such days than you are likely to witness in the future.

The family had been watching a television series collection, and as the episodes played, midnight loomed closer. Tomorrow is Easter Monday and Clayton and Bianca are due to leave on a 3-day river boating break in the morning, so at 11:25pm the DVD player is switched off.

Clayton was immediately outside the kitchen door with the two Labradors Bennie and Sophie in tow, for the late-night toilet run. As per usual, the dogs immediately melted into the stark blackness, whilst the rest of us did what we do before going to bed.

The relative silence in the house was broken by Clayton exploding breathlessly  into the kitchen en route to the walking stick stand in the entrance hall.

“There’s something up with the dogs! I think they’ve cornered the possum!”

With that he grabbed the wooden truncheon in the stand, snatched a torch and made off into the darkness of the night, the silver beam of the torch heading in the direction of the Secret Garden.

“Please switch on the front security light!”

As usual, I was a bit slow on the uptake, but managed to squeeze in to my gumboots and armed myself with a high-beam torch, following on the pack-leader’s heels.

It was dark in every direction.

No dogs in sight. No possum in sight. Just darkness.

Darkness and silence.

Clayton, with Tyler and me in tow, systematically checked the lawn and garden in an anti-clockwise direction. As we reached the 75% mark just past the veggie patch, we could here Jeanette’s screaming voice from near the front door and the parked cars.

Clayton, quite obviously with the welfare of his precious Bennie and Sophie uppermost in his mind, like a Usain Bolt, left us standing and bolted (if you’ll excuse the pun) up the gradient and to the parking area.

Apparently, the dogs had chased the possum, which was clearly no match for the two sturdy high-speed and muscular Labs on the muddy ground, and had pounced for the bloodless and instantaneous kill, amid the blood-curling squeals and shrieks of the defeated rodent pest.

This was the possum’s last day on planet earth, 20 April 2014

This was my first opportunity of being able to inspect the little pest up close and personal. It was obvious from the high quality of his fur why they were sought after for their pelts. In  New Zealand the destruction caused by their sheer nuts.umbers put them on the Public Enemy Number One List without question, while the very same critters are kept as pets across the pond in Australia. This was the very same creature who’d been visiting our Walnut tree every evening and helping himself to our crop.

I have carefully inspected all the branches as best I could, but cannot trace any more nuts. It is rather ironic that he met his untimely end, whilst coming to gather nuts which no longer exist.

Global Warming

After breakfast on Good Friday, the power was still down. Mild weather conditions, windless and still. Probably a good opportunity to burn some of the backlog of brushwood. Besides the pine cuttings from the past couple months, there are still heaps of dry cuttings from the 2012 fruit tree prunings and some even older scrap which was inherited from the previous owner.

Last spring Clayton and Tyler burned a considerable amount, but there still remains about half a dozen pyramids of dead branches and various thicknesses of tree members, just behind the fence on Goat Hill.

Clayton and Tyler started gathering the required equipment. A custom-made 200 litre steel drum furnace, dry kindling, matches and the health and safety stuff, such as couple of buckets of water.

(Above): Tyler surveying the progress of wood cutting. A number of huge piles remain.

(Above): Michael the G-Man Jackson, in the shade of the fence, keeps a watchful eye on the labourers to ensure that there is no slacking. It turns out that he goes mad for bread crusts! 

(Above): Beebs found a cosy spot in the sun to chew the cud while the humans started the fire and cutting the branches into appropriate lengths.

(Above): A pall of dense white smoke starts rising and floating slowly across the valley. Nothing huge, understand, in the greater scheme of fires, but we are rather conscious/ cognoscent of the environmental issues and aware that we should do unto the neighbours as we would have the neighbours do to us – so we were rather careful in controlling our contribution to global warming.

(Above): A close-up reveals the cause of the smoke – the three bags of chestnut husks burning like an inferno of little hedgehogs.

(Above): G-Man Beebs stands proudly on the newly-exposed grass where pyramid No.2 used to be. A fresh supply of hay in this brand-new dining-room for the next few days, yum. Does this pose make my bum look big? he seems to be asking nonchalantly.

Alfresco Friday

Thursday 17th April delivered most savage gusty winds which shook the very roots of the trees and moved most of the autumn leaves through a couple of continents. And with such powerful winds comes the inevitable – trees being uprooted and causing damage to the mains power cables – and darkness.

A phone call the the power utility company does not yield promising results, the automated announcement confirms that they are aware that the power is down for the Ngatiawa region of Reikorangi (that’s us), as well as at least another six districts. It’s a long weekend and so much outdoor work in inclement weather (and darkness) is bound to take time --  they cannot say how long the blackout will last.

We have no lights, no cooking, no water (it has to be pumped from the outside tank), no television, no radio. What can I say? Everyone retires fairly early, hoping that power will be restored by morning.

Saturday morning is windless. In fact the ever-so-slight breeze is ever-so-slightly warm. But no power. With the able assistance of Brynn, Jeanette prepares an alfresco “Easter” breakfast. Hot cross buns toasted on the barbie, boiled eggs (on the barbie gas cooker), yoghurt and steaming cofee (made on the barbie)

(Above): It is such a perfect morning, so the egg part of the weekend is only due much later, but forms part of the decor for the Good Friday breakfast, although purists will argue against this.

(Above): Gone are the days of those huge indulgent eggs – these are regular-sized good chocolate hanging colourfully from the African wire tree.

(Above): I am not sure whether this is a Kiwi practice, but hot cross buns are toasted here (and have been available in the shops for more than a month already).

(Above): The table is laid and the prepared breakfast is ready. Come on, guys. Before the eggs get cold!

Plan ‘A’

The last time I submitted a plan to the municipal council for planning permission was way back  around 1992 for the house in Hamerkop Road. I filled out a one-page form and attached a copy of the plan. We then gave the go-ahead to Mr Achmat Magiet, our builder, and that was that. The only other correspondence or contact I ever had with any official was simply the completion certificate which arrived in the post about six months after the final work was done.

Now, in 2014 I am about to submit the application for building permission for our “granny flat” extension to an existing house. All going well, I will try to hand in the following wad (150 pages!) of paperwork (plus the required not-so-shy scrutiny payment) tomorrow:

1 copy of the Certificate of Design Work by the architect (3 pages)

1 copy of Residential: Application for A Building Consent (12 pages)

1 copy of Checksheet: Single Residential Dwelling and Accessory Building (5 pages)

2 copies of the detailed building specification (9 pages each) according to which the building contractors are obliged to work;

2 copies of the Risk Matrix Calculation (1 page each)

2 copies of the Bracing Plan and calculations (4 pages each)

2 copies of the Producer statement for Truss Design ( 4 pages each) from Mitek NZ Ltd;

2 copies of a product specification sheet for the Saniaccess 3 Macerator (1 page each)

2 copies of the Heat Loss summary for all the elements (7 pages each)

2 copies of External Moisture (17 pages each)

2 copies of architect-drawn plans W1 to W9 (9 A3 pages each)

2 copies of the original property purchase agreement to prove ownership of the land (13 pages each)

Similar wads of paperwork have been sent to four prospective builders, who will hopefully submit tender prices for the completion of the work. They need to hand in their prepared tenders on or before 8 May 2014. Let’s wait and see…

The Council requires 20 working days to complete their process, unless they call for additional information…

Fill Her Up

In all my years of motoring, I was accustomed to being “served” by an attendant (‘gas jockey’), who would also check the engine oil and water, the windscreen washer reservoir and the tyre pressure. This was rewarded in the form of a ‘tip’ to supplement the meagre wage paid him by the service station.

Arriving in New Zealand, I found that this mollycoddling was a thing of the past, and I have to get off my driving-butt and do-it-myself. Now, close on to four months later, filling her up has become second-nature.

So you can imagine my surprise when I pulled into North Highway filling station just outside Paraparaumu this morning and was met by a lady fifty-ish. She was well- presented, well-attired, well-hairdo-ed and well-spoken. Well, what can I say?

She was acting as a pump jockey-ess as a service to their customers. Well done, North Highway. Then I go inside to pay and the cashier asks for my AA membership card. Why? for  a 6 cents per litre discount, would you believe. So I get another $2.67 off the bill as well as the free filling service.

Of course, I have returned home and in my inbox I find an AA email for to-morrow!:

Boots for Walking

In 1966 Nancy Sinatra introduced us to “These Boots Were Made for Walking” and since then a number of other artists have also produced similar work.

You keep saying, you got something for me
Something you call love but confess
You've been messin' where you shouldn't have been messin'
And now someone else is getting all your best

These boots are made for walking
And that's just what they'll do
One of these days these boots
Are gonna walk all over you

Speaking of boots….

The weekend just past, Clayton and Tyler completed their Bronze in Practical Bushcraft by doing a group overnight camp and tramping expedition in the mountainous park region to the east of Wellington. Soon we’ll have two versions of Raymond Paul (‘Ray’) Mears in our home to assist us in times of need. Whilst unlikely, it is possible that their survival skills may come in useful one day in times of a possible natural disaster.

(Above): As part of the course, they crossed a river in full pack, resulting in quite a bit of wet equipment. Here the two pairs of tramping boots stand in front of the fan in the garage to dry out.

(Above): The tent, ground sheets, etc need to be cleaned, dried, checked and re-packed for future use, like any good boy scout, “Be prepared.”