Whether or Not?

While the dogs are wrestling playfully (and quite vocally) on their bed next to me, I stand looking through the window as the gentle drizzle splashes upon the panes.

Showers. Hey, its April. April showers.

Who can forget the words as sung by Al Jolson,

When April showers may come your way
They bring the flowers that bloom in May
So when it's raining have no regrets
Because it isn't raining rain you know
It's raining violets
And when you see clouds up on a hill
You know they'll bring crowds of daffodils
So just keep looking for a bluebird
And listening for his song…

It was based on the 1921 song in the Broadway musical Bombo, and subsequently they made a movie based on the 1999 Columbine High School massacre with the same title.

On a more literal note, I wonder whether or not there will be April showers in Reikorangi this month. After all, we are half-way through our Autumn (Fall) and the parched earth has started to complain about being dry and brown. On checking our rain-gauge data for April, as below, one can see that the first week was bone dry and the second has produced a paltry 22mm over 6 days

I wonder whether we will be getting the weather, or not? Accuweather forecasts:

Mad Dogs

When Clayton and Bianca first moved to Reikorangi, we suggested that the house be given a name. Having only seen estate agent’s photos on the website, it was difficult for us to come up with names. Eventually, I proposed the name of Winston Churchill’s longtime home “Chartwell” in Mapleton Road, Westerham, just south of the M25. It was my choice simply because of the “romantic” connotations, rather than anything specific.

It was either “Chartwell” or else “Mad Dogs and Englishmen”, which I preferred, but, firstly I was afraid of offending the family dogs, and secondly the nearby British neighbours may not quite classify us as “English”. And quite rightly so.

So “Chartwell” I chose. No-one came up with any other suggestions, so Chartwell it has (unofficially) remained. I may add that the previous name on the gate was “Villa Turl.” Whilst I appreciate that the name probably held a meaning for the original owners (I would guess “Mrs Brown”, whom we hope to meet sometime in the near future), I would respectfully like to have it removed and returned to “Mrs Brown” if she likes.     

But, I digress: On to Mad Dogs.

In tropical climes
There are certain times
Of day
When all the citizens retire
To take their clothes off and perspire.
It's one of those rules
That the greatest fools
Obey,
Because the sun is far too sultry
And one must avoid its ultry
Violet ray.
The natives grieve
When the white men leave
Their huts.
Because they're obviously,
Definitely
Nuts.
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
Go out in the midday sun.

So starts the lyrics of the well-loved song  Mad Dogs and Englishmen penned by Noel Coward back in 1932.

As the nights lengthen, we will be occupied with more indoor-ish activities – one of them being video and television. Over the past two weekends, we have been entertained by British actors Philip Glenister, John Simm, Marc Warren, Max Beesley and Ben Chaplin in Series 1 and 2 of BBC TV “Mad Dogs”, a series I’d partly watched in South Africa. There is still Series 3 and 4 to be watched, as we did not see those from DSTv. Added to that as an extra bonus, the last half of the program is shot on location in South Africa, more especially in Cape Town.

Mad Dogs centres on four friends who holiday in Majorca, though as time passes, their holiday soon turns into a labyrinthine nightmare of lies, deception, and murder.The primary theme for the series is friendship and "growing older."

Philip Glenister elaborated, saying it is not about "a group of blokes hitting their 40s and having a jolly-up, that would have been boring" but is "an undercurrent of something a bit darker", and "about reaching a stage in life, looking at what you've achieved and where you go next, it's about how normal people deal with a certain situation and how they can implode".

One reviewer wrote: "What Mad Dogs lacks in originality it makes up for in energy, verve and humour.” I like the humour.

Another series which we will be watching in weeks to come is another of my few favourites, also starring Philip Glenister and John Simm –  Life on Mars. I cannot wait.

Birdy at Cabaret!

Thursday 10 April 6:30pm – Cabaret time at Waikanae Primary School. Tonight, Brynn is… Birdy.

Jasmine van den Bogaerde (born 15 May 1996), known by her stage name Birdy, is an English musician, songwriter and singer. She won the music competition Open Mic UK in 2008, at the age of 12. Her début single, a version of Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love”, was her breakthrough, charting all across Europe and being certified six times platinum in Australia. Her self-titled début album, Birdy, was released on 7 November 2011 to similar success, peaking at number 1 in Australia, Belgium and the Netherlands. Her second studio album, Fire Within, was released 23 September 2013 in the UK and other surrounding countries.

Here is the official photo-shoot, before she left to be chauffeured by big brother Tyler.

Look at the camera, and watch the Birdy!

Bennie’s Bucket List

Above): Bennie’s bounty in a green bucket – the critter is still alive.

Yesterday, I was walking around the garden taking some pictures for our Garden Notebook blogspot. As usual, the two Labradors Bennie and Sophie were close at my heels, on the off-chance that I might encounter something which they haven’t seen.

Without warning, I was treated to two unrehearsed field hunts by both dogs, as they relentlessly attacked some sort of prey in a lemon bush and another (or perhaps the same fiend) in a hedge of tall hydrangeas, sniffing out the grass all around and trying to climb up the plants, on the trail of a fresh spoor track of an interesting who-knows-what.

(Above): Sophie on the left and Bennie on the right, with their heads literally glued inside the Lemonade bush, spiky thorns and all.

(Above): Over here, Sophie. Bennie leading the way into the inner depths of the hydrangea hedge. Luckily the plants are due for some serious pruning in the near future, because the canine treatment can only be described as merciless. I fully expected Bennie to exit the fray with a crocodile (or something equally unexpected) hanging from his jowls, or at the very least, one of his favourite hedgehogs. Sadly, this was either a dress-rehearsal hunt, or an attack on some invisible alien. Hmmm.

On the subject of hedgehogs, it is probably not necessary, but I can confirm that Bennie brought home another sizeable hedgie after the previous evening’s trio. This one was alive and kicking. I received an enquiry regarding the hedgehogs which Bennie the Labrador has been collecting regularly over the past few months. I read up a bit and list some answers in case anyone else has an interest.

(Above): A hedgehog quill. Unlike the African and American porcupines with long deadly quills, the local hedgehog in New Zealand is a tiny rodent, with appropriately tiny needles. This photo of one I found sticking into the sole of my foot (thank you) shows the length to be a tad under 20mm.

The hedgehog is an unmistakable small nocturnal mammal, grey-brown in colour with its back and sides entirely covered with spines. They are 150-250mm in overall body length and reach a maximum of around 1kg, but their weight can drop dramatically during winter hibernation.

Hedgehogs rely on their spines for protection and roll into a tight ball when threatened.

In winter, hedgehogs hibernate.  Winter dens are under tree roots or deep dry litter, in rabbit burrows or other dry refuges. Male hedgehogs begin hibernation much earlier than females.Then in spring, as early as September, the long breeding season starts, yet young may be born as late as May. Two litters can be produced per year, each of 4-7 young; however juvenile mortality is high.  The young are independent after about seven weeks.

Hedgehogs are mainly insectivorous, with key prey items being slugs, snails and larger insects, but will eat almost any animal substance and some plant material. They find much of their prey by smell.

[Source: Dept of Conservation]

Prickly (Pair) Trio

The Chartwell watchdog Benjamin Labrador is surely one of the most prolific scouts to sniff out and bring home hedgehogs whenever he can. If you have ever tried to pick up one of these little critters, you will know how difficult it is, and how painful the pricks in your fingers can be.

Nevertheless, last night Bennie lived up to his name as a dedicated scout. Just after supper, as the family was settling down to watch the TV news, Sophie alerted us with one of her famous yelps that something was up. We went to look, and there was Bennie with a cute little very-much-alive hedgehog. Time for incarceration in the green laundry bucket. Bennie was awarded his regular “Good Boy” pat on the head, and everyone settled back to see the news, which had been placed on pause.

Everyone, except Benjamin.

Ten minutes later, Sophie alerted the household once more. No prizes for guessing. However, this time the hedgehog was a late hedgehog, with blood and a bit of guts all over the shop, so to speak. Bennie’s mouth was also not quite perfect. The ex-hedgehog was placed in the red laundry bucket. This coincidence had nothing to do with green=oK and red= dead , it simply worked out that way. Another “Good Boy” pat for Bennie, and finally we looked forward to seeing what the news had to offer.

Everyone, except, yes… Benjamin.

Half an hour later, with most of the news (including all the adverts) having been digested, Sophie sounded her final alert. A third still-living hedgehog was proudly displayed by Olympic-potential hedgehog hunter Benjamin Labrador.

Should number 3 be imprisoned in the green bucket or the red? It turned out that the red bucket was closest, so the newcomer ended up with Dead Dannie. Somehow, I don’t think that hedgehogs think that deeply, he simply accepted the local hospitality with the grace which befits any well-educated rodent.

This morning, I loaded the two buckets, with their three stinky inmates, into the back of the car and set off for St Andrew’s Presbyterian. After a few minutes I arrive. At my back is a signboard showing Reikorangi Road and Ngatiawa Road in opposite directions. To my left is the red roofed church of St Andrew. Our hedgehogs (well two of them) lay curled up like balls of grey knitting for a few moments, and then  scurried away to freedom of the bank of blue agapanthus flowers.

(Above): The trio of Bennie’s haul lie waiting on the grass opposite St Andrew’s, before heading for the hills.

Jack Humm

Have you ever wondered what a reporter (journalist) does when the news is thin? There is a clear history as to the penalties incurred when you “invent” news, if you’re not super-careful. Today is one of those “thin-news” days in Reikorangi, with a light penetrating on-and-off drizzle, interspersed with the soft rustle of falling autumn poplar leaves.

But who is this Jack Humm character? Apparently, there are three people in the USA with this name. The name Humm in English (of Norman origin) was the nickname from Old French homme ‘man’ (Latin homo), representing an Anglo-Norman translation of German Mann. But, seriously, I doubt whether many people have any knowledge about this guy. It is merely the name of a variety of Crab apple.From the Malus family, there are more than 500 varieties of crab apples.  Popular types include: Jack Humm, Crimson Rod, Red Maroon, Golden Hornet and Barbara Ann.
These trees bloom lavishly in spring, with white, red or pink flowers – depending on the variety. And the fruit itself, which often ‘hangs around’ into the winter months, can provide a bright side to otherwise gloomy days.

The author of this description certainly is correct in his conclusion that the tiny crab apples can provide a sunny face on otherwise gloomy days.

We do not have Jack Humms, I’m not sure which one we have, but I came across a universal recipe for Crab Apple Jelly by (another) Jeanette on her blogpage Living the Good Life on 3 Acres in Nelson.  Maybe next year we will give it a go?

(Above): This morning I pulled on the old gumboots and did the ritual recce of the grounds, looking for dead animals, broken branches and traces of meteors that might have crash-landed under cover of darkness. also to greet and check on Jacko and Beebs at Goat Hill.  As usual, Bennie and Sophie were on my heels, not wanting to miss out on any alien meteors (or perhaps hedgehogs?). The walnut count was down to three and I managed to find half a dozen mature chestnuts among the mass of barren “mule” ones. As noted by the popular authors, the cute little windfall crab apples add a ray of sunshine to the grey overcast sky.

Not that a grey overcast sky doesn’t have an interesting character of its own. In fact, I like grey skies.

Drizzle: 7 April

By now, you will be aware of how we regard the importance of rainfall to our existence in Reikorangi. While some parts of the country have been having regular showers, our Kapiti Coast region has been experiencing summery weather, even attaining temperatures of 30º 

As Prince William, Duchess Kate and baby Prince George alighted from their plane in Wellington yesterday, a blustery wind with drizzly weather greeted the royal party in the Caapital. At that moment at Chartwell, (60 k’s to the north if the crow flew) we had another summery day, although there was a hint of grey clouds approaching, which by nightfall was patchy but noticeable.

During the night, I heard the pitter-patter on the roof outside our upstairs bedroom. At 7:00 this morning I took the reading in the rain-gauge: 4mm – not exactly a downpour, but nevertheless nice water if you can get it. The last time we recorded precipitation was on 15 to 17 March, when 29mm fell.

Based on updated records, I have revised our rainfall data to 250 litres represented by every 1mm of rain. We therefore received 1,000 litres overnight. I am rather confused, as my previous revision indicated a number closer to 300 litres per mm.

The dip-reading at 2:00pm yesterday was 6,000+24mm = 6,000 + (24x9.0909) = 6,218

This morning’s reading is 6,000 + 110mm = 6,000 + (110x9.0909) = 7,000

A reader or two have indicated that they couldn’t really care about how much water we have in the tank, and even less about how much rain we’ve had. By way of explanation: I understand the lack of spell-binding interest, fair enough. But I use this blog as a (sort of) diary – this means that our water data will all be in one place. 

Once She Caught A Fish Alive

Sunday afternoons are traditionally the laid-back part of the week, with little happening if there are no scheduled sports events. While the rest of the family was busy with other pre-arranged activities, we stopped off at Waikanae Beach for an ice-cream with Brynn. Followed by a short stroll along the wet sand, keeping an eye open for interesting bits of driftwood.

(Above): Looking at her from a distance, Brynn has changed from a toddler in Johannesburg a few years ago into a virtual young lady – how time flies when you’re not looking!

(Above): Singing quietly to herself (as you do at the beach), she picked up the rhythm of the water. One…, two…, three four five… Dancing in the sunshine.

(Above): Wait! What can I see there?

(Above): One, two, three four five, once I caught a fish alive! Yep, a real Sardine. Here Brynn poses for a fisherman photo, so that everyone can witness the size of the catch.

(Above): With a natural affinity for all animal creatures, she insisted on chasing after a few seagulls, until one of them eventually was brave enough to come forward for a fishy snack.

A Crap Plumber

Let there be no misunderstanding: I have never attended plumber’s school, I have never enrolled for a do-it-yourself-anything course, and I have no aspirations of becoming a famous plumber.

But, I sure wish I didn’t have two left hands when it comes to fixing stuff linked to the drinking water system. Make no mistake, there’s no desire not to be successful, simply a problem of the pipes and couplings not wanting to co-operate with me. If I were to sit for an exam in this arena of expertise, I wouldn’t expect to be awarded any sort of marks, let alone a grade.

For some time, we have been aware that the water pump (mounted inside the garage) has been leaking at the seals, with the result that a leak-pond forms inconveniently on the floor near the pump. Not good when there is a stack of Pickfords removal cartons packed on the floor.

Knowing what skilled tradesmen charge, I decided (knowing full well that this could be the start of a very unpleasant experience) to disconnect the pump and to take it to the repair agents, who are located in Levin, 35 k’s to the North of Waikane.

As a pedantic pedanticist, I pre-planned Operation Water Pump in the minutest detail. Sort of in the minutest detail.

Tools: Lesson Number One which you learn at Plumbing School is that, in order to do any job well, you must use the proper tools. Hmmm. We have one smallish shifting spanner and no plumbing pliers. Tyler is deputised as emissary to go across to the neighbour to borrow something to undo the pipes.

The neighbour is quite humorous at this stage of a Sunday afternoon.

(Above): Jeanette holds up the neighbour’s spanner and ours. No prizes for guessing which one belongs to whom. It’s big enough to dismantle the bloody Eiffel Tower!

Everyone in the house is brought up to speed regarding Operation Water Pump. Twice, at least. Clayton checks that the spanner fits all the nuts. Emergency spare water is tapped off, so that life will not come to a standstill on Monday morning.

Monday morning and I wake up before the alarm. I have coffee (tea, actually) and fiddle a bit with the computer, to keep me tech-savvy, I pretend. There’s plenty of time for last minute showers, preparation for school, etc. I will leave just before 7:30 to get to Campbell’s at 8:00

7:15 and time to disconnect the pump. Right. All goes well, and I’m ready to drain the pump, when I notice… well, I notice that the electrics are such that my disconnected pipes are not sufficiently disconnected. Other stuff (which seems glued or welded in place for life)

Damn (Actually, something else). Double damn (double something else)

I am starting to perspire slightly. There is somewhat laboured breathing. That, too, is not good. What now? This intricate plan of mice and men… I failed to develop a Plan “B” for this very eventuality.

What now? That was not meant to sound panicky, as I do not panic easily, as many people can confirm. Sort of. I think.

With much cunning, deep breathing and scaredy-cat panic, I eventually dismantle half of house and a greater part of the water reticulation system. Luckily, I stop before breaking out the kitchen sink and toilet pan. Thank heavens for that, as I am sure that Jeanette had already looked up the telephone number for… well, for the unmentionables.

Finally, I am travelling northwards on State Highway 1, headed for Levin. I am disappointed to note that some of the road hogs motorists are exceeding the 100 kph speed limit. Mostly larger more expensive models. Let the speedsters perform, I remind myself, sticking to the limit, even though I can see that I will arrive late in Levin. Just too bad.

I meet with the pump expert Stu at about a quarter past eight. He has little hope for the patient – his view is that you can never predict the reliability of a re-conditioned unit. He only trusts genuine German Grundfos engineering. Probably made in China.

By ten, I am back at Chartwell and trying to re-assemble my Meccano pieces, in  a way that even Frank Hornby would approve. I even open up the priming valve and get that filled with some water. I make a mental note to look for a stainless steel mesh filter.

Guess what? The joint outlet pipe (naturally) has a leak! Did I really expect anything less? To be perfectly honest, yes: I imagined that, by some freak chance, this could the first time before I die that I complete a plumbing task satisfactorily.

I manage to locate Stu who, by chance, was out on a service call-out in the Reikorangi valley. I explain to problem and he agrees to call here on the way back to Levin. It turns out that I had used too much PTFE tape and this prevented the pipe end being joined properly. He re-wound the joint, and re-tightened.

Whallah! No leak, as performed by the professional. Thanks, Stu.

Do you have the time?

Do you sometimes observe someone doing something peculiar, or saying something totally out  of context, and you’re at a loss for words as to:

“What on earth is he on about?”

This morning Sunday 6 April, I was that “someone”. Possibly not for the first time, either. I have been told that I’m half-deaf, but I’m not listening to that sort or rumour-mongering. But, when an animal gives you “that look”, then it’s probably time to sit up and take notice.

The animal in question was Coco the Cat, awakening from his overnight sleep on my chair. He gave me that unmistakeable look as I walked into the kitchen to make coffee. The clock on the wall above the kettle read “07:43”  The rest of the family are late risers on Sundays.

“Hello, Coco.” I rubbed his purring furry body in a ritual feline greeting.

Kettle boils. Right. The water in the kettle boils, tea-bag and sugar in the coffee mug. I don’t do coffee early morning. Actually, I don’t do coffee at the moment at all. I just call it coffee, made with a tea bag.

I switch on the laptop, a customary habit – so that I can see what they’ve been getting up to in the world whilst I’ve been visiting Mr Sandman, perhaps even get to read an important email or two, now and then.

Gulp! I’d forgotten the clock before going to bed last night.

The computer is quite a wonderful device – it had changed automatically, and the little display on the taskbar bottom right, clearly reads “06:45” The phone has also followed suit. But the old-fashioned kitchen wall clock still says 07:45 – outside, it is far too light for 6:45

Coco the Cat is obviously in the laptop/ phone category when it comes to telling time. I am clearly not. Whilst we were snoozing, they gave us an extra hour by turning back the clocks an hour, as our grandfathers would have said. The sleepy-heads have been allowed to sleep an extra hour.

In new Zealand’s second time zone, namely the Chatham Islands the time-change was done at 03:45 because they are 45 minutes ahead of us using Auckland time. They are on CHAST (Chatham Island Standard Time)

To balance our books before Christmas, as it were, 28 September will  be the night where we get robbed of some sleep and clocks are advanced by an hour.

We are now in NZST (New Zealand Standard Time), also known as Fall Back or Winter time.

(Above): The Chatham Islands (circled in red), lie about 700 km east of New Zealand’s South Island.

The Chatham Islands form an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean about 680 kilometres (420 mi) southeast of mainland New Zealand. It consists of about ten islands within a 40-kilometre (25 mi) radius, the largest of which are Chatham Island and Pitt Island.

The archipelago is called Rekohu ("misty sun") in the indigenous language Moiori, and Wharekauri in Maori. It has officially been part of New Zealand since 1842, and includes the country's easternmost point, the Forty-Fours.

Granny Attacked in Bathroom

A typical headline that none of us wants to read. Having moved to a relatively crime-free environment in New Zealand, we never dreamt of first-hand experience. By the way, for those grammatical purists among us, “dreamt” is a UK-English word, while “dreamed” is the US-English equivalent. Both are correct.

End of English lesson.

However, we must face the fact that we live in a real world, and the ugly real world has ugly real thugs, intent on inflicting harm and ugly injury to the defenceless. Frequently, for no apparent reason.

Yesterday, while quietly doing…, well, doing… well, nothing, I heard a muffled shriek from the bathroom.

“He got me! He got me! Oooooww!”

Jeanette appeared semi-grief-stricken at the conservatory door where I was seated doing…, well, nothing. She was grasping her right hand with her left hand and headed for the kitchen sink with me in pursuit, filled with curiosity and concern. 

(Above) 0800- WASP: There he stood, bold as a wasp in the hand wash-basin in the bathroom, seemingly proud of his callous dastardly deed.

It transpires that the “attacker” was a wasp, a creature which is very fond of sitting on towels hanging in the bathroom. Small, but powerful.

I Googled the Bees and Wasps First Aid for NZ. Bees leave a sting and are pretty useless after injecting the barb through your skin. Wasps, on the other hand, have no barbs and live to inflict multiple stings, over and over again.

Apparently, this is a Vespula germanica, as opposed to the common one, the Vespula vulgaris. He has “loose” dot-markings between the crown layers.

Nut Cases

Anyone who has planted a couple of bean seeds, and then watched in agony for them to grow into plants and then to produce succulent juicy green pods, to pick them dew-fresh and chew their crunchy produce right there in your very own garden, will know what I am talking about.

There’s a bit of inner excitement, of satisfaction, that your sweat and tears and the talking to the tardy non-cooperative plants, when the harvest time dawns. Naturally, everyone is a bit hasty at trying to pick the crop – patience comes with experience, but each fruiting season brings its own circumstances.

I, too, am in this stage of virgin gardener. Some of the seeds which I have planted are “looking good”, some are not so good, but, above all else, I am convinced that I have the healthiest most prolific weeds in the whole of the valley – I have treated them rough and tough – used the language of sailors, denied them even the smallest dose of water, even stooped so low as to place nasty voodoo curses on them.

But weeds are survivors.

Currently, the majority of the Chartwell harvest is derived from the fruit trees which were inherited from previous owners of the property as part of the purchase of No 53. (You may have heard the lyrics to a well-known song “Number fifty-three, the house with the Chestnut tree…”) I have blogged a couple of the harvests – peach, quince, plum. There have been a couple of varieties of apples and of pears, which have not performed as anticipated.

However, the two trees which are perhaps not so common-or-garden, which are present are (a) the chestnut in the New Fence fruit row and (b) the walnut in the Secret Garden. I have previously reported on both of these in earlier blogs. But possibly of further interest may be:

(a) Numero Uno nut case:

 
The fruit being produced by the pods on the Chestnut Tree are (pictured above) infertile, shrunken, dried out and occurring in groups of three. They consist of the typical leathery outer shell and no flesh at all inside; while below, we have encountered a strange phenomenon – from the very same (apparently infertile) tree, a few pods have been producing proper flesh-bearing fruit (pictured below). I have tried to find out more about this situation, without much success. Perhaps we can monitor the tree and pollination more carefully next season? 

(b) Numero Duo nut case:

This covers the fruit of the Walnut. Here, we have had no real harvesting problems. However, the biodiversity in the Secret Garden is giving grief: in the shape and form of a marauding Possum who frequents the tree every night without fail. This Australian brushtail possum (Trichosurus vulpecula), which, according to the literature, does not have very strong jaws. However, I have my suspicions, because every morning there is a whole bunch of freshly cracked open walnut shells, smashed opened in a way that no human would use. The possum evidently does not have a sharp knife with a point.

(Above): As the nut-gathering season progresses and now starts nearing its end, the possum is beginning to get the lion’s share each evening. A few weeks ago, each morning, I could collect five to ten good condition nuts for ourselves and there would be, say the remains of four which had been eaten under cover of darkness. Today there were only three for us, and the possum’s “empties” numbered four!  

One for them, three for me…  One for them,….

Goats’ve Got Talent

Say, for instance, just say: If the Dept of Goat Matters decides to issue photo-IDs for goats, then every goat will have to submit two identical passport-sized colour photos with his/her name written on the back.

While the goats know that this scenario is complete nonsense – the humans would never allow any such leniency, fearing that the intelligent goats would then be in a position to take over the world.

However, there are some goats who think out of the box, as it were, and have requested that we exhibit their mug-shots, just in case the Dept of Goat Matters sends out a notification. ‘You never can tell’, is a wise old goat adage.

Respected personalised goat named Justin Bieber (a.k.a. ‘The Beebs’) claims to be of Nubian descent. He reckons that it is regal and sound quite classy.

Respected personalised goat named Michael Jackson (a.k.a. “Jacko”) claims to be a Domestic Alpine, or something like that. He’s not sure who his dad was. He thinks that Dad was a travelling goat.

Bountiful Time

Winter is sketched as being a time of scarcity, when cold conditions place severe restraints on the ability of prey animals to capture food. They make hay whilst the sun shines, as it were, and stock up on food, fat and energy before the advancing wintery season.

It looks like Coco The Cat has also read that book… Yet Coco is still enjoying a bountiful hunting season.

Today is the third day that I have either seen Coco returning from a field hunt, or I have stumbled on the remains of a result of one of his hunts. This afternoon, he came stalking through the long weedy and daisy-covered grass of the lawn, stepping carefully, almost chameleon-like, as if carrying a fragile parcel.

(Above): Coco’s view as he approaches the kitchen yard.

In his mouth. With a long thin grey tail.

(Above): By this stage, Coco is ready to share the view of his catch with me. He is purring loudly and proudly. Coco, that is, not the mouse. The little creature is stone dead. Dead as a doornail. Dead as a Norwegian Parrot.

“Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this parrot what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very boutique.”

“Oh yes, the, uh, the Norwegian Blue...What's,uh...What's wrong with it?”

“I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!”

“No, no, 'e's uh,...he's resting.”

“Look, matey, I know a dead parrot when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.”

Coco tries in vain to resuscitate the little rodent. The mouse lies motionless and Coco’s  interest in the game of cat-and-mouse visibly starts waning. He steps towards me and rubs against my legs, purring loudly.

Oh-oh. Bennie the Labrador has noticed the increased activity on this area of the lawn, and ambles across to investigate. I give him the “Leave!” command as he gingerly smells the little mouse. He obeys without question or hesitation. 

As a precaution, Coco sidles up to Bennie and stands his ground as he stares at the Labrador, ever so slightly in a confrontational manner. Bennie backs off and returns to lie in the shade of the tree.

V is for Vaughn

Day Two of the flooring job dawned to-day and Raymond joined Vernon to assist with laying the vinyl planks. Raymond called his colleague “Vaughn”, because, it transpires, that “Vernon” is actually “Vaughn.” At least I got the initial and last letters right!

(Above): The tile adhesive gets spread in a chalk-lined lane with a spreader. The glue dries to a transparent finish.

(Above): The new tile planks are then carefully positioned from both sides of the strip.

(Above): Wipe away any excess glue with a soft cloth. Starting to look good…

(Above): The first lane is completed. The heavy roller lies at the ready.

(Above): Finally, the lane is rolled with a heavy metal roller to smooth out anything untoward.  The colour of the wood finish appears less red in this picture, because of the way the light in being reflected.

Why Pook?

When asked last evening whether I’d detected the mid-afternoon quake, I was unable to confirm the experience, as I was accompanying Tyler to Paraparaumu (also known as ‘Param’) on his final driving lesson and his test. I guess that quakes of lesser force are difficult to detect when you’re in a moving vehicle.

I saw no reports of any North Island quake on the TV news, either. Although that is not to say that they did not report one.

This morning, I opened up the quake site http://www.geonet.org.nz/quakes/latest   and there it was :

Why Pook? One of those Anglicisations of the Maori name. Ypuk

Waipukurau, also known as Ypuk, is the Central Hawke’s Bay District. It is located 50 km southwest of Hastings on the banks of the Tukituki River.

The town is close to the site of a Maori pa, from which it gets its name. (The word ‘pā’ can refer to any Māori village or defensive settlement, but often refers to hill forts - fortified settlements with palisades and defensive terraces and also to fortified villages). The pa was situated on the town's main hill, named Pukekaihau. The name is said to mean water of pukerau, pukerau being a type of fungus. At the 2006 census, the town had a population of 4,008.

(Above): The central part of the North Island, showing the location of Ypuk. The small red rectangle just north of Paraparaumu is where Waikanae is located, about 100 km south-west of Ypuk.

In the paper New Zealand Herald, the report reads: The magnitude 5.2 quake occurred at 2pm today 14 km southeast of Waipukurau at a depth of 40km. Waipukurau's Leopard Hotel staff described the quake as "quick and vicious."

"It shook up our patrons. People were running outside and climbing under tables. Some stock came off the shelves in the chiller but nothing smashed."

Countdown national communications manager Kate Porter said stock had fallen from shelves at Countdown Waipukurau. "We did have stock falling from shelves but damage was kept to a minimum," she said.

Waipukurau New World owner Deborah Walters said there was no stock damage to report, but ceiling tiles had come loose during the quake. "Staff and shoppers were quite shaken by it," she said.

More than 2000 people submitted the quake as "felt" to the GeoNet website, with submissions coming from as far north as Hamilton and as far south as Marlborough in the South Island

Flowerese

As I was expecting a phone-call from the electrician, and Vernon our flooring guy was still busy with his noisy grinding machine in the hallway, it seemed a good idea to retreat into the conservatory, which is a bit more isolated and soundproofed from the grinder.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the conservatory becomes extremely hot around midday onwards, and if I was an author, then I would most certainly spend the lion’s share of my time in the conservatory – one could not wish for a better natural environment setting, sights and sounds.

Whilst thinking about formulating the subject matter for the next blog (being the fixing down of the vinyl floor), my attention wandered over to the edge of the lawn, where Coco the Cat frequently sits, deep in thought, generally with his back to the open lawn.

(Above): One of the spots near the rose trellis, where Coco the Cat frequently sits quite motionless for up to an hour on occasions. He does not lie down and sleep: no, this is a sitting up, posture-aware, deep-in-thought kitty.

Firstly, I must apologise to Brynn (and to Coco) for spelling his name with a “a” suffix – Cocoa instead of Coco. I was under the impression that the cat contained brown-ish cocoa-ish coloured fur, rather than resembling a French fashion lady or the Latvian Nicolai Poliakoff’s famous silly clown.

Some 30 minutes later, Coco is still looking at the lone flower.

(Above): The jury is still out – the possibilities are really endless. Perhaps some readers of this blog would like to come up with intelligent suggestions, because this ritual repeats itself on a very regular, if not daily, basis.

At best, Coco may have learned Flowerese, the language used by flowers to communicate with other plants. Or Coco may simply be considering the gardening options as to the various alternatives which could be planted for the upcoming summer season.

Or perhaps he’s heard of that human occupation of watching the grass grow?