Lipsum

I first saw Lipsum in the seventies when I frequented a printing business Somerset Press in Somerset West to discuss our printing requirements for paint can labels with the typesetter fellow. It appeared on many pages of the sales manual those particular printers used in showing me samples of what I could expect from a particular printing layout proposal.

Since then, it has become fairly commonly known to users of computer documents, publishing apps, etc and is also known as “Greeking” after the original Greek author Cicero in his De finibus bonorum et malorum (On good and evil ends).

To anyone reading the text, it appears to be a jumbled mumbo-jumbo mish-mash on text such as, for example:  “hdshcfuihviubn ejcuwe ceu sucbuich uchiu cbubh kbcu hbcusu bcbcue ubcued jbucbde cbudbc jbcusici  etc etc”

But instead, it has become a fairly standardised international practice to use an excerpt from Cicero, like the sentences in green below. I wrote it using an app called Lipsum.Pro which automatically generated any number of words, sentences or paragraphs as instructed by the user…(me):

“Facilisis ut nunc quisque nulla vitae interdum convallis enim justo porta lacus diam suspendisse proin adipiscing curae mus justo. Dui consectetur aliquam cursus neque cras placerat mauris dui a tellus ad parturient sociis at magnis ullamcorper lacus ad.”

which translates to the English equivalent of: “Antioxidants may now everyone is just no life and times of the valley gate leakage platform to suspend them then we just take care of the customer . Funny some kind of a real estate course nor tomorrow but with great notebook to his companions at the lakes..”

Interestingly (or not), the reverse translation of the English translation back to the Latin gives me: “Facilisis quisque nunc lacus sit amet nulla porta convallis vitae interdum iustus tunc curae suspendisse adipiscing. Dui consectetur dui a tellus mauris aliquam cursus placerat neque cras , sed magna at lacus, ullamcorper in , parturient non , ad comites sic ad..”

Direct translations of this sort are usually difficult in that sequence and syntax are generally different, verbs being placed at the end of a sentence and adjectives after the noun. Translating and “she threw the ball” becomes “she the ball threw” and “a big tree” gives “a tree big” (compare: Afrik. “sy het die bal gegooi”.)

Pretty damn’ good, for my 50-year-old Latin memory, I would say.

As I write this garbage, I am sitting in our “sitting room” in the extension where I can keep an eye on the weather, which I would describe currently as a veritable downpour, with regular gale-force gusts. This is the reason for me not doing some garden fence prep work… The electricity supply has been failing intermittently now about twenty times in the last half hour, so connection to the internet to get translations and to publish this post has been a bit awkward…

Halloween 2014

We are treated to trampoline displays by Brynn quite frequently since the trampoline was moved from the end of the runway to the formal lawn… and accompanied by music and dance. This was indeed the case last night when we had supper outside after a warmish Spring day and Brynn had spent some time practising her Halloween makeup skills and trying on her “trick or treat” outfit in preparation of the event tomorrow evening (weather permitting).

(Above): On her left cheek, a realistic looking bruise, of which she was particularly proud…

 
(Above): Big scary eyes with stitches on the cheekbone.

(Above): Apparently Benny has been at home on a trampoline since he was a tiny puppy. You can often catch him lazing on the warm black surface mid mornings. Here he hops with Brynn, his trademark Goofy face contrasting to her “fun” face of enjoyment.

(Above): Although he appears to be a bit uneasy, he climbs up the steps without invitation and is quite happy to “hop” in his awkward doggy fashion. It’s actually a lot easier for four-legged to enjoy the trampo as compared to us top-heavy two-legged ones!

From Terrace Road

We live in Kents Road, a steep short-ish junction road which joins the “no exit” Terrace Road to Ngatiawa Road. For non-New Zealanders a non-exit road is a cul-de-sac or a dead-end road. I was recently at the Eastern end of the cul-de-sac, so I took some snaps, simply because I could…

(Above) Dozens of different shades of green: The panoramic view looking westwards from Terrace Road cul-de-sac

(Above): Looking due South.

Dang Murphy

Who was this Murphy character really? You know, the guy who passed that silly law, and then gave his name to it as well.

We are in the process of building a timber palisade fence around a proposed veggie garden. The “foundation” of any fence is the “posts”, the poles that keep it in place and prevents it from falling over.

Because of the type of ground we have, we have elected to fill the post holes with a collar of concrete as well. Also because everyone else has recommended that we do it.

The curing process of concrete is dependent on many factors, which I will not to try to explain with my very limited knowledge of the part of hydration chemistry, but water certainly plays on important part.

On Saturday and Sunday we poured concrete into prepared pole holes where we had carefully measured, positioned and levelled the measured and cut posts. And what happened but a few hours after, guess what?… Yes, Murphy happened. Murphy’s Law.

In the next 24 hours, we had 59mm of rain with the temperature in the very low teens, like eleven degrees at its hottest. Then the next 24 hours have brought another 15mm. (These figures are measured on our rain gauge and are therefore very accurate.)

The posts concerned are planted along a contour along which the water overflow from the rainwater tank farm flows. And, boy,did it flow along that route, because all the tanks were already overflowing. All 12,500 litres of it… The posts with brand new concrete socks stood knee-deep in water…

Now, we’re holding thumbs checking the on-going rigidity strength of the posts as the stuff cures over the next few weeks, hopefully checking…

Anyone for Golf?

I am hopeless with routine. Practice makes perfect, so I know that I could never excel in any activity which requires concerted efforts of practice. Like, for instance, playing the piano properly.

Or like golf.

Way back in time, around 1984-ish, I was introduced to the game of golf by an acquaintance during a lunch hour lapse of concentration. He convinced me to try a round of the game that Wednesday afternoon at a course in Bellville. Whilst it may have been done with good intentions, he also managed to get the afternoon off work and a bit of practice in.

I hacked and drove, smashed and missed. All afternoon the frustration welled up to the point where I swore I’d never waste my time with that elusive little white ball or that far-away hole in the grass.

A few years later, armed with a second-hand set of bent clubs, I joined a neighbour on a course just outside Malmesbury. The “set” really consisted of a heavy wooden driver thingy to bash the ball as far as possible everywhere, and a large flat putter to shepherd the ball into the holes. The “course” was more of an obstacle course, with plenty of bush and long grass – ideal for losing and finding golf balls. After the round, beer at the clubhouse was a far better alternative.

That is my track record as far as golf is concerned.

Now for a new chapter.  Golf Croquet.

(Above): The five courts at the Waikanae Croquet Club, numbers one to four furthest from the clubhouse and number five on the right.

Jeanette and I have been to a Tuesday morning practice session of golf croquet, which is a laid-back less formal form of Association Croquet. I understand that one of the big differences between the golf version and the proper big guys stuff is that each player has a single shot in turn, whilst players of AC may have a number of shots in sequence at a turn depending on the type of shot they achieve. But, I guess, time will tell.

Next week Thursday, we are off to Plimmerton, halfway down State Highway One on the way to Wellington city for a half-day course on the rules, techniques and tactics of the game. By then we should also know whether our membership application has been approved. Playing for us old fogeys is set for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings 9:30 to before lunch.

The nature of the game and the rule of not running on and off the court every few minutes (to go get your camera, as an example) makes it difficult to take too many photos of your own game. I will try to take some photos of other games in progress next time.

Message waiting

Oooo – They have such a wonderful life, those Wotsernames. Just look at Matilda Wotsername’s Facebook entries. She has, just look, 1,340 friends, and I only have thirty-two. Here is a set of photos at their friend’s birthday party! Look how  happy they are… And they have such flash friends.

We are such an ordinary humdrum family, stay-at-home and sober. I cannot remember when we last threw the sort of parties that the Wotsernames frequent. Oh how I wish a million people would invite me to be their “friend.”

In today’s times of social pages, it would appear that so many people have lost touch with reality and are forced into spending a substantial portion of their lives keeping “in touch” with all their “friends” and having to photograph and comment on some of the most mundane events simply to remain “on the map.”

We went for a meal at a local restaurant and enjoyed a quiet evening of relaxation out of the home environment, and the rest of the world is completely unaware of it. On the other hand, look here:  As I write, Matilda Wotsername has posted a photo of her, her hubby and six of her pals eating out. Look at their scrummy meals. Wait a mo… If I translate her post, it turns out that the Wosternames and pals are eating burgers at the local burger-house.

Translating some of the numbers, at 1300 friends, if Matilda should allocate a measly five minutes attention for each  friend in a week, 1300 x 5 minutes = 6,500 minutes… that’s from 7:00 in the morning until 10:28pm in the evening flat out each and every day of the week!  – no time for real living, at that rate, not even time to go to the bathroom, unless she looks at your stuff whilst seated on the throne?

I need to end this post, as I can see a whole stack of messages piling up on my messenger service. I daren’t ignore many of the most important ones, else what will people think of me?

Click <like> if you like this post.

Double digits

22 October 2014. Today, precisely ten years ago, Brynn our grand-daughter was born in Johannesburg, South Africa. Today she is ten years old. Congratulations to Bianca and Clayton, as well as many happy returns to our grand-daughter.

(Above): Icing the cup cakes for sharing with school-friends.

(Above): Most impressed with an animated birthday card.

(Above): A pop-cup cat card. How cute.

(Above): Brynn’s new wheels, a present from Mom and Dad. Not the wagon, the bike and helmet.

Posts and Rails

No, this has absolutely nothing to do with mailing letters and transporting goods by train, it is more of a progress log detailing our efforts at building the veggie garden fence, all 96 metres of it, step by step.

(Above): One of the three stacks of 450 pales each measuring 1200x150x25mm. They will be nailed to the two horizontal rails with a 50mm gape between pales of the palisade garden fence.

(Above): Clayton explaining some of the finer carpentry points to Tyler, whilst preparing some of the many 1500x100x100 treated pine posts. From their original imperial equivalent measurement the 100x100 is known as the 4x4. 

(Above): Three generations puzzling over how the rails, pales and posts will all fit together… one day…

(Above): The first series of 5 posts are finally concreted into position. The front, bottom and top lines are all checked for conformity.

Don’t Fence Me In…

Way back in 1934, Cole Porter and Robert Fletcher penned the famous ‘Don’t Fence Me In’:

Oh give me the land, lots of land
Under starry skies above
Don't fence me in
Let me ride through the wide open
Country that I love
Don't fence me in
Let me be by myself in the evening breeze
Listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever but I ask you please
Don't fence me in

At Chartwell, Benny the Labrador (if he could) would probably also be singing about not wanting to be fenced in. Why, because we are busy fencing Benny out!  Out of the proposed veggie garden-to-be.

For many months we have been threatening to build a raised-bed vegetable and herb garden, but it has been put off until now because dogs tend to dig up any freshly cultivated ground. We soon realised that we need to surround our seedlings and vegetable beds with a secure fence, then all will be well.

After planning the garden area into sectors (1) Veggie beds, (2) Potager Jardin herb beds and pots, (3) BBQ and recreation area, (3) Green house and potting shed and (4) Irrigation water, we looked ta the available ground, the shade and the sunshine throughout the days.

The first step was to mark out the position of all the fence posts, and then to dig holes to act as foundations for the 4x4 (100mmx100mm) posts…

Above:  With about 41 holes to dig in clay and rocky ground, a pneumatic motorised drive and a 250mm hole auger was hired for a week-end.Holes of approximate depth 500mm in approximate positions were drilled.

(Above): A view of a series of holes dug between the greenhouse and the burning area.

(Above): Many of the holes prove to be nests of rocks and stones, requiring hammer and chisel removal, slowing down the progress considerably.

(Above): A row of holes which have been drilled from the secret garden upwards towards the northern fence. This is rock- and tree-roof-infested territory

(Above): Starting a new hole along hydrangea row.

Don’t Fence Me In © Music by Cole Porter, Lyrics by Robert Fletcher, 1934

Writing Challenge–Day 23

The brief for Day 23 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads: “One night your character decides to leave home and never come back (you decide the reason). But at the airport, he or she encounters an old friend, and they get in a conversation. Something about this conversation (you decide what it is) makes leaving home suddenly seem much more difficult than your character had expected…

This scenario is a lot more difficult that one first imagines. The first bit about why the character leaves home is quite easy – determine anything that makes life difficult for him and you have the reason for him to leave. But the bit about then being in two minds because of what an old friend says… note that it is an old friend…

I have spent a number of hours sketching two different situations, but have discarded them because the reasons for leaving as in the conversation with the old friend at the airport are not at all plausible: if you’ve bought your plane ticket and you’re about to catch your flight, then the reason to cancel must be pretty solid – it is indeed life-changing.

In my first attempt a 17-year-old is forced to look after his two smaller brothers every day while his alcoholic father ill-treats him. He finds out that the siblings are fosters and he decides to leave to start a new life. The second attempt dealt with a printing salesman who worked for his father-in-law and was having problems playing his employer off against his wife…

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Writing Challenge -- Day 22

The instructions for Day 22 of the 30-Day Writing challenge reads:

Supposedly, Ernest Hemingway wrote standing up. On the other hand, Mark Twain wrote while lying in bed. Could standing up while you write give you extra energy? Could writing in bed help to relax your mind so that ideas flow more easily? Today, try doing one or the other and see if the physical change makes a difference in your writing...

My handwriting is atrocious and illegible. Even I have trouble reading it. So the question of whether I might get extra energy by writing standing up is moot and academic. I find that I get cramps in my arms and shoulders if I lie in bed. However, I can sit up in bed and write, (as indeed is the case, this very moment.)  The physical change is therefore not conducive to making any positive or beneficial difference to my writing.

I am uncertain as to the compiler of this 30-Day Writing Challenge, but somehow the list of daily tasks included two “Day 8’s” and two “Day 9’s”. Because today’s challenge does not produce written work of any significance or interest to my readers, I have taken the liberty of  using the “second” Day 9 task for today.

Originally, the “second” Day 9 brief reads: Marta, your character's neighbour asks your character a favour. Would your character mind taking in Marta's mail and watering her plants while Marta is away on an unexpected trip? Your character agrees and accepts Marta's house key. But when your character lets himself/herself into Marta's house for
the first time, he/she encounters something he/she certainly wasn't expecting....

My name is Fred Grassmeister. Although I have not reached the advanced years associated with retirement, I am enjoying an early retirement funded by the proceeds of a buy-out of my electronics business by a multinational company. I live on my own in comfortable suburban home, enjoying most mod cons without being ridiculously extravagant. Prior to the sale, I tended to be a careful spender, and, as they say, old habits die hard.

I look at the key in my hand. It is a standard Yale key, the sort that almost everyone has for their front entrance door. It is attached to an ornate chrome metal tag bearing an engraving of a cat. It belongs to Marta, my next-door neighbour, and I have agreed to be a kind of house-sitter whilst Marta is away for a while.

The house next door is very secluded and private, and I can see very little of it from my property. Until this morning, I had never seen anyone there, and this girl arrived out of the blue at my door. I still don’t know her last name, and come to think of it, I also don’t know where she has gone, or on what business.

I might as well go and take a first look at the place, check that all the doors and windows are secure and that all electrical appliances are switched off. Getting to Marta’s place involves leaving my property by the long gravel driveway, walking down the road to the corner, turning left into Victory Drive, and walking up the hill to number 54.

Number 54 is a stylish well-maintained double-story house, with an intimate and screened swimming pool surrounded by lush green lawn in front. There was little in the way of flowers or shrubs, just a high well-kept hedge along the boundaries, to ensure privacy. The house screamed “quality”.

If I’m to do anything resembling a proper job of house-sit, then I’d better take a walk around the house and note any irregularities or anything untoward, I thought to myself. And check all doors and windows, as there is no sign of a intruder alarm system. A side-entry door to the garage is unlocked. Noted. I open the door, and inside a gleaming Aston Martin Vanquish 2 litre, apparently spanking brand new. Marta is undeniably well-off. The car is locked, so this is one buggy I won’t be able to start up – just to keep the battery fresh, you understand – and maybe take for a quick spin…

The pool-house is locked, as is the case for what appears to be an outside store-room. That’s the exterior, no for inside the house.

The Yale key fits the entrance door perfectly, and the door swings open without a sound. No creaking door stuff here. What a house! Every room seems to be a candidate for first prize nomination for “Home of The Year,” stylishly and impeccably furnished in every way. I wonder how Marta or her husband, if there is one, earns their money, as this is most certainly a six-figure salary home.

Something I have never done and would normally never do in someone else’s home, is to open and  pry in their cupboards, but I desperately want to find out more about Marta. But info in this regard is not forthcoming. Not even in the bedroom do her clothes or personal possessions give any indication.

At the end of the corridor between what appears to be two guest suites, is another door. I turn the handle, but it’s locked.

Yale. The door has a Yale lock. Strange. But wait, the front door has a Yale lock… I insert the key, and the door clicks open. Darkness inside. It’s a landing at the top of a staircase. Light… there’s a switch and the steps and area below becomes illuminated…

Look after the house… Sure, I’m looking after the house… Yes, and that probably includes checking on the basement… I can hear electric fans running – I think they are fans… Down the staircase into a cavernous basement.

Oh, it’s only pot-plants growing under artificial light. Pot-plants? Oh… that sort of pot! Hundreds and hundreds of green plants being cultivated under controlled conditions. Now I start understanding the luxury swimming pool, the Aston Martin…

Now I need some advice. Do I do the easy thing and get out and re-lock the door, and pretend that I have never been near the basement? Or do I do the correct thing and alert the authorities? But if, for argument’s sake, this is, say a mafia house with Marta merely a Girl Friday,would a report to the police send a message loud and clear to the mobsters that Mr House-sitter is a tattletale?

As I switch off the light at the top of the staircase, a cold feeling comes over me. Standing in the passageway between the two guest suites, looking straight at me, is a short stocky man dressed in a black suit …

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 The brief for Day 23: One night your character decides to leave home and never come back (you decide the reason). But at the airport, he or she encounters an old friend, and
they get in a conversation. Something about this conversation (you decide what it is) makes leaving home suddenly seem much more difficult than your character had expected…

Writing Challenge -- Day 21

The instruction for Day 21 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge: 
“…Your character's dream in life is to be a celebrity. He/she is not particularly talented or successful at anything, so he/she will have to find a different way to become famous...”

Ever since I heard Miss Pansegrouw, our career guidance advisor, in my first year at high school explain our options in life, I have been dead keen on becoming  a “celebrity.” Although that was a quite a number of years ago in the early sixties, I can still clearly hear the options she gave.

She said, “You can become (1) a graduate professional like a lawyer or a doctor, (2) a salesman or shop assistant, (3) a tradesman like a plumber or electrician, (4) a celebrity like a politician or a singer or a film star or (5) you could simply just keep on failing and become a bum or a convict, the choice is yours. The girls have fewer choices by becoming a nurse or a teacher or a housewife. Don’t bother about anything else, the men either won’t let you do it, or they’ll pay you practically next to nothing.”

My grades were not particularly marvellous, so going to University and getting a degree to slot into option number 1 would simply not happen. Option 2, in my opinion, was probably the pits --  and I predicted way back then that shops would become self-service and even mail order catalogue. I am not keen on hard manual labour, so getting my hands dirty like a tradesman was also out of the question. That left only options 4 and 5. I could never imagine becoming a drunken hobo, so, by a simple process of elimination, it was quite obvious that I would become a celebrity. Precisely what branch of celebritydom would best suit my area of expertise was not clear.

Having established my career category, I set about trying to list all the jobs I could hope to get under this heading. Clearly a celebrity is generally recognised by a group of people of a particular culture, while a national or world-wide celebrity would be recognised by a particular country or internationally respectively. So I needed to do stuff which would make me famous.

I started making a list of celebrity jobs. The more I thought of what I could add, the more I added totally unsuitable jobs. I would not be doing anything academic, as my grades indicated that I would be far more useful in other spheres.

Sport-related stuff was not worth considering, as I was hopeless with ball games or bat games, or athletic-type running or jumping or fighting – in fact I couldn’t do any sport – the co-ordination just wouldn’t come to me.

On the stage, I was hopeless at play acting. I tied a bit singing, but off-key seemed to be my middle name.I tried dancing, but it is uncanny how similar dancing is to many sports.

I quite school and went to finish my high school lectures at a cram-school. One wintry evening I was sitting at the local student pub having a beer and chatting to a mate about how he saw his future, and where one could possibly find a job.

He concluded, “Well, it seems that you cannot really do any work which may be on offer. There is still one avenue you could explore, you know… politics… you could become Town Clerk, or Mayor, or Member of Parliament, or Prime Minister or even President of the World!”

From that moment, I knew that I was destined to become a politician celebrity. Like any profession, newcomers need to start at the bottom and work their way up, and politics is no different, so I’ve landed myself a cushy job as trainee meter reader. Once I have qualified, who knows how high I can go?

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The brief for Day 22  reads: “ Supposedly, Ernest Hemingway wrote standing up. On the other hand, Mark  Twain wrote while lying in bed. Could standing up while you write give you extra energy? Could writing in bed help to relax your mind so that ideas flow more easily? Today, try doing one or the other and see if the physical change makes a difference in your writing...”

Writing Challenge -- Day 20

The instruction for Day 20 of the 30-Day writing challenge:
“…Write a story that will make your reader afraid to turn off the lights at bedtime tonight…”

My excuse for an implausible story this time is that scary stories have never appealed to me, so I have not really read any books or seen many videos or films on the subject. My knowledge is limited to Dr Who-type scary stuff. My original tale involved a mutated Daddy Long Legs spider. It sounded too implausible, hence this version…

Don’t Turn Off The Lights
At university I met Zeke over lunch in the students’ hall. Lunch was the standard huge plate of oily floppy deep fried chips drowned in a house-brand tomato sauce and a huge mug of black coffee. Whilst we had no scientific subject lectures in common, we were both enrolled for English 601, which is a technical course aimed at enabling scientist types to write properly, to research and formulate papers for publication.

Zeke was studying butterflies and entomology and microbiology  and such things. He collected all sorts of specimens and had a variety of live “pets” ion his rooms, including, apparently, a gang of rare scorpions, as well as a Puff Adder. I declined his frequent invitation to come to meet his zoo pals.

Last week, while shopping in the city centre, quite coincidentally, I ran across Zeke at the restaurant in the department store. He called out to me, and invited me to join him at his table. He hadn’t changed much in appearance, and judging by the trend of the conversation he hadn’t changed in his interests. Apparently, he had graduated and was now a top nob in a government health department.

After catching up with stories about out lives post-university, he stirred his coffee thoughtfully, and then confided, “There’s something you may want to know. But, you didn’t hear it from me, you understand… know what I mean?… It’s something that isn’t out there as public knowledge, ‘cos the solution must still be found…”

I could see that the fellow was serious and perturbed. I nodded and looked at him attentively.

“You know about Bubonic Plague which was known as the ‘Black Death’ from the centuries ago. It is caused by a bacterium called ‘Yersinia pestis’ and is more or less unknown as it was when it killed all those millions. But…” Zeke took a breath, as if thinking how to phrase his sentence.

“It appears that a genus of small mouse is carrying a mutated version of the bug, YPN which is Yesrinia pestis nova, making it a hundred times more dangerous than the original one. This is cause for major concern, and the authorities are working flat-out on production plans for efficient medication against the mutated YPN. This could be miles more dangerous that HIV and H5N1, if appropriate steps are not taken…”

He paused and took a drink of his coffee, then continued, “Somehow a colony of these creatures have arrived in our city from an import of manufactured goods from an Asian country. We just don’t know how widespread their distribution is… they multiply like rabbits, and the YPN can be transmitted to cats and dogs as well…”

I nodded without comment, as he continued.

“ Naturally, the government is worried about terrorists using such a creature as what Bush and Blair called Weapons of Mass Destruction – remember that? But there is some very good news from the University. A colleague has identified a vital weakness: the mouse has extremely poor genes associated with its eyesight. They avoid bright light at all costs, as their vision is permanently destroyed if they are caught in strong artificial light.”

I asked, “So, if…. these critters can only survive in the dark… and, if we stay out of the darkness, then  we will not meet…”

“Precisely, Doctor Watson, you learn fast.”

He reflected on how laid-back human society had become over the past few decades, and that other creatures, also fighting for survival on our planet, were still evolving and adapting themselves. The results were scary…

Zeke glanced at his watch, left his coffee unfinished, and jumped up. He grabbed my hand in a firm greeting, “I must run, old boy. It’s been good to see you again. Stay in contact, hey, and whatever you do, don’t turn off the lights…”

 

The instruction for Day 21: 
Your character's dream in life is to be a celebrity. He/she is not particularly talented or successful at anything, so he/she will have to find a different way to become famous...

Writing Challenge -- Day 19

The instruction for Day 19 of the 30-Day writing challenge: 
“… Write a story that includes: a gingerbread house, a stolen key, and a surprising phone message…”

Wow, this challenge is certainly a challenge. If I were to surrender now and not continue, then that would be an admission of defeat. Defeat is not an option for a writer, defeat is not an option for an author, defeat is not an option for me. The unlikely combination forming today’s instruction has drawn a total blank for me, but let’s give it a go anyway…

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It was back in the early seventies when I first encountered Gabriella Brunetti whilst on a skiing holiday in Switzerland.  On the second day of my stay, my handbag was stolen from the seat in the crowded bus, but I only became aware of my loss when I wanted to get off at my destination. Strangely enough, the only contents in the bag were a pack of twenty cigarettes, a box of matches and the key to my room at Villa Gryon.

When I arrived back at the villa, Gabriella was on desk duty. She was the on person who had a decent command of the English language at the private hotel. She was most understanding and kindly arranged a duplicate key for me. We got talking, and I learned that, in addition to being so fluent in our language, she was also a master confectioner.

Gabriella’s speciality was the artful production of intricately designed gingerbread house and other structures. A gingerbread house is a type of cake made from a spicy dough similar to the material used to make gingerbread men (and women).

As I was grateful for her helping me with the key, and not giving me a million words about my carelessness and demanding that I pay for the lost key, I felt obliged to listen to tales of her exploits as a gingerbread cake expert. Whilst she was showing me some photos of her winning entries in the recent bake-off competition, the phone rang.

“Hotel Villa Gryon, allo,” she greeted the caller.

“Mmm  , uuh…, oK, ciao,” her contribution to the conversation was minimal, and sounded official. She hung p, and turned to face me again.

“Mister Johnson, you are in number 42, yes?”

“Yes, why?” I enquired.

“Mister Johnson, that was the depot manager of the bus company,” she explained, “They have found a handbag with a pack of smokes and a key to Room 42 Villa Gryon. It was under the seat of the 12:15 bus…”

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The instruction for Day 20: “…Write a story that will make your reader afraid to turn off the lights at bedtime tonight…”

Writing Challenge -- Day 18

The brief for Day 18 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge:

“…They say you can't judge a book by its cover. But some book covers attract and fascinate. Browse Amazon, or look on your bookshelves and choose a book you haven't read that has a cover you really like. Now, you're going to steal that cover for your own story. Okay, not really ‘steal’ -- just borrow. Write a story of your own that would go with that cover...”

I think that I’ve previously indicated various excuses for not completing assignments in this particular forum/medium, being a personal blog page. If I were to write a complete “story,” my readers would soon be tuning out…

This task, which I call Saddleback, is no different: I will only write the introductory section and leave the rest either (1) for posting to a different forum, (2) for another day, or (3) to your imagination…

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My name is Bartholomew Jenkins, and I live in Maida Avenue London, a one-way running alongside the Canal. Our place is a little way north of the Paddington Green Primary School. You may know it. Well, that’s where I started my education many years ago.

The Paddington area is a great place to be. Wherever you may find yourself, there’s always a tube station or a bus stop within a short distance. There’re tons of eating houses, plenty of entertainment. A canal barge comes past on a regular basis as well, peaceful and touristy.  On the downside, the traffic is crap, but I don’t have a car, so its no real bother.

I have been working at a publishing house for the past eighteen months, but I remain on the lookout for something more challenging. I am not driven by the lure of money, I want something interesting, something challenging, as my dream is to become a successful writer – although the definition of “successful” in that realm is rather doubtful, unless you’re one of those everyday names like JK Rowling, Tom Clancy or Stephen King.

Last Monday I was trawling the Internet, as you do, looking for what I like to call “opportunities” – I’m not sure where they are, what form or shape they may take, but I know that I’ll recognise one when I see it – at least, I hope I will.

I encountered a strange entry on a travel site. The heading caught my eye “Opportunity in peaceful Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand. Live-in carer required, start immediately, send CV including telephone number by email.”

In reply I’ve had a call from one Peter Phillips, acting on behalf of Mary Cashew of The Saddleback Lodge. He spoke in a deep educated voice, “Miss Cashew has been impressed by your attitude and aims in life rather than by your education or past experience. The remuneration is minimal, but all your expenses will be prepaid, with a return trip to England for a fortnight at the end of every three months. You may be required to assist with minor chores, but Miss Cashew employs a daily help for the cleaning and maintenance at the lodge. Your sailing and motor-boat licence is one feature which is of particular interest, as access to the Lodge is only by water taxi – there are no roads to the property…”

I called Mr Phillips back a day later, and now, first class air ticket in hand, I’m off to Paddington station down the road to the Heathrow Express to make my flight the town of Wellington almost exactly halfway around the earth in New Zealand. I’ve never flown anything other than economy class, and I’ve never flown as far as New Zealand. In fact, I really know absolutely nothing about the place, save that they have a really great rugby football tradition.

                                                         *   *   *   *

Whew! What a trip, but what a pleasure it was, because of the first class seat on the Virgin Australia plane. I’m sure I will enjoy the trips for my quarterly sojourns as well. All those unbelievable number of hours of it, including stopovers in Abu Dhabi and Sydney. From Wellington, a pre-arranged taxi collected me and took me to the hotel last night and this morning delivered me to the Inter Islander ferry. Three hours later, I’m here at the water taxi terminal in the quaint ferry station town called Picton. Brilliant sunshine, almost a tropical atmosphere, and I’m happy and excited.

“You Bart? I’m Jake,” a well-tanned bearded fellow walks up to me. “I’m here to take you to the Saddleback. This all your gear?” He picks up a couple of bags at a time, as if they weigh nothing. The fellow was covered in intricately patterned tattoos, especially his bulgy muscular arms and sinewy neck. He speaks no more, as he fires up the twin engines and we roar away from the jetty.

There is hardly any breeze, and the trip in Jake’s water taxi along fantastic smooth blue water and a snowy wake behind us is like a Caribbean holiday picture. Later, I learn that it is, in fact, the same sort of scene they use as promotion for the Queen Charlotte holiday brochures.

                                                            *  *  *  *

Now, I am walking along the stretch of warm sunny beach which is the private frontage of Saddleback Lodge. If you look at my picture above, you can just make out Miss Cashew and me in the middle of the photo at the turquoise water edge.That’s the sort of caring I get paid to do…

“Bart, I want everything sorted and understood before you start,” she had said when I first arrived at the Lodge. “The advert which I placed was a bit of a mis-statement, but I had to use the word ‘carer’ not because I need looking after like someone with a terminal illness or like someone with a disability, as you can see. I need someone who cares about others, and I believe that you are such a young man.”

I could see. Miss Cashew was forty-ish, fifty-ish, I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. She appeared perfectly fit and healthy and had been married to a multi-millionaire of some sort – I’ve never asked about him and she’s never offered information, either. Anyway, he died some years ago in a helicopter mishap, and she has remained at Saddleback.

“I’m not a recluse or a hermit, mark you. It’s just that I prefer the quiet nature and this place which holds so many joyous memories of my dear Bob. I’m what I call a naturalist. I do limited shopping in Picton and then you will take me there in our boat, and sometimes I go to Wellington by ferry for a full day-trip. You will keep me company on such trips.”

“This is my maid,” putting her arm around the cleaning lady, “She is called Akina, which means ‘pretty flower’ and she is that, too. Akina arrives in the mornings with the first taxi and leaves late afternoon by the same means. She prepares all our meals and generally looks after my needs.”

Turning to Akina, she confides, “Akina, this gentleman is Bart. He is from London in England. Will you please see that he is comfortable in the suite above the boathouse?”

                                                          *  *  *   *

You must please excuse me now. As soon as we get back from our stroll along the beach, I need to take the boat to meet the two o’clock ferry to collect Miss Cashew’s nephew and niece from Australia. They will be spending a week of their school holidays with Aunty Mary. After that, I’m free (again) to continue writing the draft of my second book.

Oh! Did I mention that I will also speak to my publishers about arranging a re-print of my first novel?

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The brief for Day 19:  “ Write a story that includes: a gingerbread house, a stolen key, and a surprising phone message…

Writing Challenge -- Day 17

The instruction for Day 17 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:

“… Your character gets on a taxi and tells the driver to take him/her to the airport. But the driver has his/her own ideas about where they are headed…”

As with much of the fiction written, this anecdote is based on personal experience, enriched with a bit of embellishment, here and there. I have taken the liberty of changing then instruction regarding “...to the airport...” to “…from the airport…”

                                                       *   *   *   *   *   *

It is 8:30pm at Cape Town International on a hot March evening in the year 2011. Correction, a hot February evening. February 28, to be precise, because I have just time-travelled back from New Zealand against the clock. So, despite having lived through 24 hours of one 28th February, I am back in time, back to 8:30pm once more in another.

Prior to leaving Cape Town on holiday four weeks earlier, I arranged with a neighbour that she would collect me from the airport, knowing the quality, safety aspects and pricing policies of South African taxis. Needless to say that I arrive at Cape Town from Johannesburg only to find that there is no-one to meet me, as arranged.

No South African small change (silver coins) for the public telephone, only New Zealand coins. South Africanism encountered in the airport shops – No, buy something from our shop to get change, do we look like a bank to you – friendly lot.

Eventually armed with enough coins, the correct telephone numbers and a public phone booth which hasn’t been vandalised and actually works… the neighbour friend is not answering the phone, now its nine o’clock and dusk is threatening to change to darkness.

There’s no alternative at this stage – find a taxi. The first wants six hundred Rand local currency. While it may be a fair fare in other countries – say fifty Dollars – the price is a rip-off, and aimed at foreigners. The next fellow is asks me how much cash do I have. I lie three fifty. He shrugs his shoulders. He’s parked just around the corner he confides grabbing my carry-on luggage, and trotting off… I follow reluctantly, but not keen on losing my valuables in my bags. The memory of tourists being taken off and even murdered for their paltry possessions, is still uppermost in my minds. Oh ye of little faith… oh ye, realists…

The taxi is… a Volkswagen Citi Golf, from a previous century… or before. It has the dings and dents of Cape Town traffic and poor driving and parking habits. It has no signs to indicate that it is, in fact, a taxi at all. The registration number plate hangs at an angle, threatening to fall off at the next bump in the road. Mind you, it is difficult to make out the registration number, in any case. Nevertheless, the luggage has been loaded, but there are mechanical defects which make it difficult to open the back doors, and the driver indicates the passenger seat up front. This door is no better, but I’m in and we are on our way to the airport exit.

His name is “Freddie” and he specialises in personalised service. If ever I need to go to or from the airport, just call day or night. Freddie hands me a strip of paper with the words “Freddie – Airport Taxi --  phone 434 8955”. Freddie is fiddling with the car radio trying to tune into the “Urban Turban” music station, but it appears that the radio has been infected by the same bug as afflicts the back doors. The radio crackles with  some terrible beat number, noise without rhythm, I call it.

We arrive at the ‘Exit’ booms, where Freddie makes what he calls a “move” – it involves creeping up to the tail-bumper of the vehicle in front, and then to tail-gate him.

“That’s the nature of finance and economics,” he explains, “I would have to charge you an extra thirty six Rand to go through the normal channels. The airport has enough money already, and so I save you thirty six! It’s really a ten percent discount!”

As we stop for a red traffic light, Freddie pulls out his mobile phone, and moments later is in conversation, “Is that you?” he asks, as if he was expecting it to be someone else, “No, not to worry, I’ve been held up, but I should be there in, what…what… say, ten minutes. Ok?”

I know Cape Town streets and highways. We are still twenty minutes away from my apartment, so where does Freddie’s ten minutes fit in. My heart skips a beat and I find it hard to swallow. We are still in a not-so-good neighbourhood. I gently feel the door mechanism, it simply slips around in a circle. It’s one of those no-exit doors, where it can only open from the outside, which is no consolation either, as the window winder arm has been broken off… The air inside the car is getting hotter… I feel as if I’m choking…

We’re almost through the slummy area, when Freddie’s phone rings again, “Yes. I told you man. I’ve got the goods. I won’t be long. Say ten minutes. No, I’m sure there will be no questions. Safe, man, safe.”

He rang off, and glances in my direction, almost colliding with the bus in front of us, “My friend is so impatient, you know, actually it’s my father, you know. He wants the pigeon feed I bought for him, but he can’t wait, you know.”

We reach a major intersection, a five-lane one with Modderdam Road with us in lane three. Freddie turns left and we’re heading in a direction opposite to the way we should be going to get me home.

“Hey, man. This is not the way to Table View! You’re going the wrong bloody man! What’s your game, what’re you up to?”

Freddie looks at me cool and calm, as if nothing is wrong. I guess that is the standard Freddie expression. “I must just go down here to Mandalay Motors to get some gas, you see…” banging the fuel gauge on the dashboard, “this bloody gauge is faulty. We need gas. Can you give an advance of say two hundred for gas? I’m clean out of cash at the moment…”

After another twenty minutes, the trip which should have taken forty-five minutes at the most tops the hour mark, but at least we’re almost within sight of my apartment. As Freddie dumps my bags on the pavement outside my place and collects the one fifty balance of his fare, he smiles at me, “Hope you liked the ride. Please tell all your friends about Freddie’s Airport Shuttle. I can do with the work, you know.”

“Sure will, Freddie,” I smile and shake his hand, relieved that I have arrived home in one piece, that I have arrived home alive…

The Volkswagen Citi Golf disappears in a puff of blue smoke down the street.

                                                              *   *     *   *   *   *

[  The brief for Day 18:  They say you can't judge a book by its cover. But some book covers attract and fascinate. Browse Amazon, or look on your bookshelves and choose a book you haven't read that has a cover you really like. Now, you're going to steal that cover for your own story. Okay, not really "steal" -- just borrow. Write a story of your own that would go with that cover...  ]

The Case of The Giddy Goat

All rise. This court is now in session. Judge Billy presiding. The first case on the roll will be presented without further delay.

Thank you. Case 2014/10/001/01, The facts of the case, your honour, are: One – the accused, M. Jackson, Two – The plaintiff, a pear tree, and Three  --  The Charge, acting the giddy goat.

Judge: Noted. Please proceed

Your honour, we have previously met ‘Michael Jackson’ a.k.a. ‘Jacko’ , our (foster) pet mountain goat who resides on Goat Hill, overlooking the grave of his erstwhile companion ‘Beebs’ on the flats at the very bottom of the hill. He is, your honour, a very dear and loving creature with huge penetrating eyes, a row of cute white little teeth, and two fierce-looking but quite harmless back-turned horns.

It is rumoured that he previously loved to intimidate and head-butt his fellow resident, one ‘Beebs’ a brown Nubian,  and that he indeed tried to charge, head-butt and intimidate a small (human) girl as well, but…

Judge: Please dwell on the evidence for this case. Do not introduce circumstantial or anecdotal material, if you please…

I shall proceed, if it pleases the Court. On the fourteenth day of this Month at or about six pm in the evening, the accused was observed approaching a pear tree which is situated on the property of his residence known as Goat Hill, which is used solely and exclusively for his activities, and no-one else. The pear tree is the property of the Andrews family, plaintiff and owners of the land which includes the Goat Hill Estate.

Further, it was observed by the plaintiff that the accused stood up on his hind legs on a number of occasions in attempts to nibble at the pear flower blossoms and new spring buds. It was observed that the accused managed to gain control over a number of such blossoms and buds on selected branches.

It is alleged by the plaintiff that the wanton removal of blossoms and buds and wilful destruction of these branches infringes on the rights of the owners of the tree, to wit the Andrews family, who believed it to be within their legal rights to approach the accused, as they hereby do, to advise him that the tree is private property not to be tampered with by any third party, as this would seriously jeopardise the production of fruit.

On the fourteenth day of this month at or about six pm in the evening, the plaintiff approached the accused who was standing on his hind legs peering over the boundary fence towards the home of the plaintiff. They reprimanded the accused with fair verbal reproach and smacked him gently in a friendly fashion alongside the earhole, whilst advising him in a civilised manner, by saying in the English language, “Jacko, boy, you can eat all the grass you want, we bring you hay as supplement, so please do not eat the pear tree. The Missus will send you back home if you don’t stop, do you hear?”

What transpired subsequent to this verbal admonishment is unbelievable, I know your honour, but I can call two eye witnesses of good standing and repute to confirm that the event took place as described and that reaction of the accused is something they would not believe, had they not witnessed it.

Judge: Well, don’t beat about the bush then, let us hear what is this unbelievable reaction.

If it pleases the Court, I shall continue and elaborate as requested by your worship. The goat dropped down onto all fours, as befits any regular goat, or indeed any farmyard animal. He then stomped off at high speed, in a dizzy and death-defying merry-go-round-like spinning motion of temper, frustration and what appeared to be defiance and rebellion, hopping and bucking as one might see at an American rodeo, if I make myself clear?

Judge: Perfectly. Do continue.

If it pleases the Court, the Goat then charged the fence where the two members for the plaintiff were standing, and made mock attempts at head-butting them with his back-turned horns, as is typical of dominant male goats. One of the plaintiffs is on record as having remarked at this stage, “Would you believe that? Exactly like a defiant (human) teenager rebelling after being told off for some or other misdemeanour.” He acted like a real giddy goat!

As further corroborating evidence, I submit this branch from the pear tree in question. It is marked “Exhibit “A” for the record. It clearly shows the total lack of blossoms or buds, when compared to an uneaten one marked “Exhibit B.”

If it pleases the Court, that concludes the case for the prosecution, my Lord.

Judge: Thank you, (turning), “Does the g\oat have anything to say?

Defence Attorney: Yes M’lud, but my client prefers to remain stum, on the grounds that he may incriminate himself…  

Writing Challenge -- Day 16

The instruction for Day 16 of the 30-Day writing challenge is: 

Put on music in the background today while you write. Write a scene that captures the feeling of the music...

I need to write a scene that captures the feeling of the music. My music is made up of guitar playing – something I can still hear, more than 50 years later. Although the singer told interviewers that the song had sexual connotations and included his experiences, I have always listened to it simply as a superficial level, governed by that all-too-familiar sound of the guitar, as the vocal opens to a tumultuous enthusiastic roar and approval of the crowd,

“…I got my first real six-string
Bought it at the five-and-dime
Played it 'til my fingers bled
It was the summer of '69…”

It was in the Grand Arena at Goodwood (Cape Town) that I first heard the opening notes of that all-too-familiar guitar sound live. Let’s face it, it was the only time. Its not every day that one gets to see and listen to someone like Bryan Adams, live in the flesh. Today, I have the next best thing, the CD playing as I write…

“…Oh, when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever…”

Of course, he is some 12 years younger than me, and it he would have been 10 years old in 1969, so we can probably discount the 69 as a reference to the year.

For me the half-decade 1965 to 1970 was probably one of the most difficult and life-changing, from the time I left high school until we were married. University was something totally different and unexpected for me, having received absolutely no prepping or advice from anyone, other than “You’ll find this bloody hard and a lot more work than ever before…” 

It was also a time of gaining independence, and learning to live with non-family members and others of my age and mostly older. It was a time of learning to stand on my own feet, how to act in the workplace (without ever having had any training or advice), a time of learning about alcohol, which I consumed in relatively small amounts (because finances did not permit excess), meeting guys up to ten years my senior who were flush with cash for booze and birds, being their earnings as mercenary conscripts in Central Africa.

It was a time for encountering tobacco, but that was something I was forcefully against. It was some years later that I started smoking, something I still regret having done. There were drugs, I am led to believe, but I never encountered them personally, nor did I suspect that any of my associates were into such activities. I guess there was a bit of grass going around with some of them, but nothing was spoken about it.

Although I had been in a co-ed  class for the previous five years of high school and at University, it was a time for meeting girls on a different basis, and seeing other strata of society and ways of life, both rich and not-so-affluent.

It was also a time that I encountered small groups of guys of my age, who’d got together with some guitars and drums and tried to become pop bands.

“…Me and some guys from school
Had a band and we tried real hard…”

Some of them lasted a few years, most were absolutely amateur, and faded into oblivion

“…Jimmy quit, Jody got married
I should've known we'd never get far…”

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[ The instruction for Day 17 reads:
Your character gets on a taxi and tells the driver to take him/her to the airport. But the driver has his/her own ideas about where they are headed… ]

Writing Challenge -- Day 15

The instruction for Day 15 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge reads:
Today, you have a choice of two different activities related to point of view. When I say point of view, I mean the perspective used to tell the story. Think of the location of the camera when filming a movie. You can tell a story from inside a particular character's head, showing what that character sees, thinks, and experiences.
• Option 1: Think of an argument or uncomfortable encounter you had with another person. Tell the story of this encounter from the other person's point of view. Or...
• Option 2: Rewrite a story you have written previously, but write it from the point of view of a different character.

Unlike the previous task, this one is not so easy. I think I will use the Day 14 subject of the blind man, the tent and the train, which used the young Adam Smith as the “camera”. In contrast, I will try to relate the situation as it may have been understood and experienced by Harry Rickson, as related by the author, a third party observer… – Option 21 above, if you will.

                                                *  *  *  *  *  *  *

“Hi there, Mickey. We will be arriving at Brito in twenty minutes or so. I will wait at that muffin place, as usual. Yes, and I’ll have a choc muffin and a cappuccino while I wait,” chuckled the greying seventy-five-year-old man via his Samsung mobile to his daughter Michelle from his seat 12B on the KiwiRail Northern Explorer from Wellington.

Born a Scotsman, but now a New Zealander, Harry Rickson is violin virtuoso from the Edinburgh philharmonic orchestra. At the age of 18 he started military training just after WW2 but was tragically injured in a freak gas accident at his very first camp, which led to his permanent blindness. Like Harry usually says when asked, “Playing the violin professionally is the natural choice for me – It will never make you a millionaire, but I have never come across a good violinist who plays with his eyes, we all use our ears…”

For the past few years, Harry has been resident in the inter-island ferry terminal town of Picton on the South Island. Today he has been on the North Island day-trip train from the capital to Auckland to visit daughter Michelle. On previous visits, he has used for the speedier air-flight, but the rail option has proved to be a pleasant change.

“Thanks for the advance warning, Dad,” Michelle was genuinely pleased to hear her father’s voice, “I’ll catch you there shortly, depending on the afternoon city traffic. Love you, bye for now…” She had naturally never known her father as anything other than visually impaired, and did not even consider his lack of vision an impairment to his way of life. She had lost her mother and he his wife Matilda some fifteen years earlier, when she was killed by a hit and run driver, while the couple had been back to Scotland on holiday.

Half an hour later, Michelle arrives at Brito Mart railway station, near the entrance from Queen Street. There she spots her father at what they know as the Muffin Place. She can see from that distance that he is wearing the earpiece to his iPod. Listening to some of his favourite music, she muses.

As she reaches his table, she gently taps him three times on his left shoulder. This is their “secret” greeting, which lets Harry know that it’s his daughter.

“Did you have a good trip, Dad?” Michelle enquires, as they leave the parking at the station and head for her home in the suburbs.

“Actually very good, thanks, Mickey. For more than half the trip, as far as Hamilton I believe, I had a young man as company. He even gave me a full commentary of the place where we got off at lunch-time. Youngster off on a camping thing, called himself Adam Smith,” Harry offered her.

“And, what does a 75-year-old violinist speak about to a teenage in-betweener?”

“Oh, mostly this and that, Mickey. He told me a bit about himself, what he was planning to do with his life ahead, and I told him about my music, about Scotland, and that sort of thing…” Harry’s voice faded a bit, as he pretended to look at the passing scenery, “So, what’s for dinner, tonight? I’m fairly famished!”

                                                      *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

[ The instruction for Day 16 is:  Put on music in the background today while you write. Write a scene that captures the feeling of the music... ]

Writing Challenge -- Day 14

The instruction for Day 14 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:

Write a story that includes: a blind man, a tent, and a train...

When presented with a brief, most times I need to put in some thought, and more frequently I need to sharpen points, modify ideas, and in many cases, discard the whole shooting match and start again from scratch.

When I read this brief, I saw the two characters in details, I saw where they were sitting and I could hear them talking, even down to their accents!  One might wonder what makes some writing tasks so difficult and others the exact opposite…

                                              *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

It isn’t the 4:50 from Paddington. However, for a fleeting moment, I can recollect the rows of platforms under the domed steel structure roof with trains moving in and out, as the KiwiRail Northern Explorer moves out of Wellington station early this clear autumn morning, and accelerates northwards in the direction of Auckland.

The passenger car, a comfortable 2-seat/ aisle/ 2-seat arrangement is warm inside, despite the nip in the air on platform 6 outside. I am seated next to this older fellow who is well-dressed and wearing sunglasses. He is in the window seat, I am on the aisle.

But wait! I apologise for the oversight. Introductions… My name is Adam Smith. No, really it is. Adam Steven Smith, previously known colloquially as ASS at school. Really, I was, but that isn’t material to this tale. I am currently taking a gap year which includes working at various places, companies and institutions for short stints, interspersed with many short excursions to various places of interest or tasks which are designed to make a proper “man” of me. That’s me. As for the gentleman fellow-traveller, I don’t know him from Adam… That’s an old pun, I know…

“You want to sit next to the window, lad?” The man spoke in an eloquent educated British voice.. if you can judge from nine words, that is.

I hesitate for as moment, not sure about this.

“No, really. We can change seats if you like. I have no real use for windows, you see,” and touched his spectacles lightly with the index finger of his right hand. At school I wasn’t the brightest in the biology or history class, but the dark glasses at seven in the morning makes sense.

“That’ll be awesome, sir, thanks. This trip is a learning experience for me, so, yeah… it will be great, thank you.”

I stand up and we swap places without any mishap. The gentleman moves effortlessly. Not like a blind person. But then again, how would I expect a blind person to move?

After a couple of minutes, we pass through a number of small stations, the train being an express through a number of the smaller suburban stations, then the gentleman speaks again.

“My name is Harry Rickson and I’m going to Auckland to my daughter for a week or two. That’s why I have my audiobook with me… we only get there around suppertime. You also going all the way?”

“Oh no, Mr Rickson. I’m getting off at Hamilton. From there I’m getting a coach to take me to a camp just outside Tauranga up on the coast. By the way, I’m Adam. Adam Smith.” I routinely say it the other way around like James Bond (supposedly for effect), but I thought it more appropriate in the case of a blind man to stick to the routine. You see, there I go again, pre-judging how blind people will react. Sorry, it is unfair.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Adam. And you must me Harry. You sound like a mature young man already.” He smiles as he speaks, “I suppose you’ve heard of a very learned person, also named Adam Smith. He worked in the town where I was born and lived as a kid, Edinburgh in Scotland. That was a long time ago, in fact he died 200 years before I was born… Anyway, even if we never meet again, I will always be able to remember your name, at least.”

Harry had obviously lived an eventful and interesting life, and he is prepared to recall and share with me the details of many of his life experiences. I listen with interest as the time slips by and the train slips closer to my destination. The train stops at another station and we are advised over the public address on the train that we will be stopping for a full lunch break, with catering available on the station platform, and that they will warn passengers before the leave, so we’re free to wander around in the vicinity of the train as well.

Sitting in the station tea-room with our lunches, Harry swallows a mouthful of chicken pie and washes it down with his tea, leans forward a bit and speaks in a more subdued voice, “Adam, you interest me. You haven’t treated me like many others treat a blind person. And you haven’t asked me what has caused the blindness. I’ll do you a deal, shall I? I’ll tell you about my eyes, and in return, you will walk me through this station and surrounding streets and give me a running commentary of what you see. You will be my eyes for the next ten minutes, how’s that?”

“Sounds fair to me, Harry. Deal on.”

“A while ago you told me that you will be camping for the next week, out in the bush. May I give you one tiny bit of advice? When handling gas – these cylinders you use for cooking and heating?” Harry looked up at me. What I mean is that he lifted his face towards me as he might if he could see me.

“Mmmm…” I nodded.

“That’s what took my sight. Gas.”

“Well, when I was eighteen, I joined the British military for training. The Great War had just ended, jobs were not all that plentiful, and it seemed the right thing for us younger lot to serve our country, after the older fellows had fought so hard to protect us, many even dying in their efforts… “

“When I left home for training, my parents most probably imagined that they might possibly never see their son again, killed by who knows what, who knows where… But it turned out completely differently.. something they could never have imagined…”

“Yes…?” I query.

“Instead of their son being blown up and them never seeing him again, the opposite happened… no, not death at the hand of the enemy. No, he returned home a mere two weeks after leaving home. Virtually uninjured… But instead of them never seeing me again, it was I who would never see them again… The accident at the wash tent took my sight. The tent was the last thing I ever saw. They said it was a freak gas explosion that sent the tiny fragments into both eyes, and that was that…” Harry wipes his mouth with the paper serviette, and looks up.

I look down at the floor, embarrassed at trying to avoid his eyes.

“So, don’t give a bugger about how safe they tell you gas might be. You always treat it with respect and care. You never know.”

I shift around awkwardly, “I don’t know what to say, Harry.”

“Then tell me to lift my backside and to come outside walkabout so that you can see for me what this town looks like,” he chuckles, getting up from the chair, “before we miss the train.”

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[ Halfway home -- The brief for Day 15 reads: Today, you have a choice of two different activities related to point of view. When I say point of view, I mean the perspective used to tell the story. Think of the location of the camera when filming a movie. You can tell a story from inside a particular character's head, showing what that character sees, thinks, and experiences.
• Option 1: Think of an argument or uncomfortable encounter you had with another person. Tell the story of this encounter from the other person's point of view. Or...
• Option 2: Rewrite a story you have written previously, but write it from the point of view of a different character. ]

Writing Challenge -- Day 13

The instruction for Day 13 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge reads:

A change of environment can sometimes refresh and recharge the brain. Do you normally write at a desk or at your kitchen table? Today, go someplace different to write. For example, try writing outside or in a public place such as a coffee house or mall….

I normally write at the table in the conservatory, and at night lying on the bed – not the best of posture, leading to a sore neck and other ailments. As I do not have a tablet or similar device and have just acquired a Toshiba laptop, writing in a public space is a bit more inconvenient. However, I could choose to make mental notes of my creative attempt and then to transcribe my efforts later (like now, tonight)… On Wednesday, I chose three separate venues, to wit:

• In the doctors’ surgery waiting rooms;
• In the parked car near Te Horo Beach; and
• In a coffee place in the Mahara centre.

Waiting rooms:
I am sitting one seat from the corner near the children’s play-pit filled with colourful plastic toys. The blue upholstered easy chairs are tastefully arranged all along three walls of each of the two waiting rooms for patients. The short-pile carpet tiles are of a neutral colour and design so as not to show wear or soiling. Although there is no music, there are a couple of television screens with repeat loop adverts for lifestyle, diet, medications and good health practices, this feature being without audio.

A few couples sit here and there, and two men sit as single patients. I suppose I could surmise why each of these folk was there, what their ailments were, but the concept doesn’t hold my interest, as it would be totally fictional, unless someone walked in with a plaster cast on the leg or an arm in a sling.

Parked car:
We drove up north along state highway 1 in the direction of Otaki. On the way I turned off left and we headed through the farming lands towards Te Horo Beach. About three k’s down, Jeanette called out that she’s just witnessed a calf being born and that it had hit the ground as she spoke. I stopped and reversed back slowly and carefully, thankful that the country road carries very little traffic.

Indeed, she was correct. The little calf, now scarcely two minutes old, was staggering around like a drunk at a free-for-all booze-up on a Friday night. But, unlike the drunk, the calf remained upright and did not end up in the gutter. Instead, it tried to snuggle closer to the mother, who continued licking her offspring clean.

Another cow in the same paddock seemed to be equally large in the calf department and appeared to be in labour. I shut off the engine, while we sat waiting and watching for a live birth. After some considerable time, we gave up, and moved on.

Coffee place:
After the trip to Te Horo, we went for coffee at Mahara Place in Waikanae. The bakery and coffee shop is plain and unpretentious, with pies, tarts, cakes and gingerbread men. There was only one other person, a little old lady having a cup of tea, having completed her grocery shopping for the day.

Conclusion:
No excitement there, either. On balance, I prefer to do creative writing in a controlled and familiar environment after perhaps “researching” venues where the stories might take place, rather than trying to write in situ.

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[ The brief for Day 14 reads: Write a story that includes: a blind man, a tent, and a train... ]

Crash!

There is one golden rule about owning a computer. Always make sure there is a backup of your files saved on some other device. I knew that. But,did I obey the rule? Hmmm…

I hang my head in shame. For some reason, the hard drive on my laptop decided to shuffle off its mortal coil a couple of days ago, leaving me with no method of electronic communication and no electronic files, including lost user names and passwords. I have had to make other arrangements, including having to download a new version of Windows Live Writer for blogging. Having done that all successfully, I am now able to publish this…

I was busy with a 30-Day writing challenge, which has now gone for a loop. I will try to find the instructions, and continue from where I left off in a day or two. My apologies for the interruption.

Flashback

Isn’t it strange how our minds become conditioned to our environment? Our minds also become conditioned to social circumstances, without us realising this influence until after the event. These conditioning situations can be short-term, extending over a few days or weeks, or longer term, taking months or even years for us to have a “flashback.”

Clayton is on a short leave this week, to take a refresher break from the pace of his job responsibilities, and reduce his accumulated leave on hand. Therefore, to me the past few days have seemed like.. well, I’m not sure…, probably like weekend or a public holiday. It was only last night when we were sitting around his bar-b-que (which is customarily a weekend or public holiday event), that I realised that it was a Tuesday! The same sort of thing generally often happens over the Easter and Christmas periods, when one loses track of the days.

I last walked along the Blaauwberg beachfront early last December. I was recovering from major surgery at the time, and also very busy packing up home and arranging sale of cars and house, and all those time-consuming things associated with emigrating. Anyway, walking along that beachfront will always hold particularly unforgettable memories for anyone who has been there. Over the past weekend, while walking from one set of stores to another in the Coastlands shopping area, I was nearly blown off my feet by a near-gale force wind, biting and icy cold. At that instant, for the very first time, after ten months, I experienced a flashback of trying to walk at Blaauwberg against the impossible winds that blow there November through April every year.

Isn’t it strange how such a seemingly insignificant detail can bring back a particular set of feelings. Up north on the same day, winds of up to 296 k’s per hour were recorded. By the way, we also lost electrical power for half the day, probably due to wind damage to overhead power lines. The Wellington region is no stranger to hurricanes!