Writing Challenge–Day 5

The instruction for Day 5 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief:  Your character has a date but decides not to show up. Your character believes
he has a very good reason for this decision (you decide the reason). But
your character's date is furious and decides to make your character sorry… ]

Wednesday 8:30pm
Ben and Cynthia had a date for Friday night. They pre-arranged to meet at the northern entrance of the local football stadium for the game between the home team the Golden Arrows and the Silver Aces from the next-door province which was due to start at 8:30

“Cynthia,” Ben had chanted over the phone on Wednesday evening, “I am so grateful that you are also keen to go to the match. It is billed as the match of the season, not to be missed. It really means a lot to me that you will accompany me. I’ll get the tickets after work and then meet you not later than 7:30 at Gate number 7 on the northern side of the stadium near the station, Ok?  Oh, and be sure to wear something warm and woolly, the forecast is for clear but very cold weather.”

Cynthia so desperately missed the words of endearment that any girl would like to hear. A darling, or something about love, a precious, anything other than grateful, or meaning a lot, or accompany me. Nevertheless, this was an opportunity to get out into the social circle, especially as her date Ben was well-liked by the guys and popular with the girls.

                                                          * * * * * * *

Saturday 5:00pm

Ben has just climbed out of the shower and preparing to get ready for the football match to-night. This will be a swell occasion, especially considering that he’d managed to get complimentary tickets to the team hospitality suite. Real special, as Ben knew many of the team members and reserves. Real special, as this date would really impress the Cynthia bird, and she could be a huge publicity agent for him among the girls on the social  scene.

Ben lies flat on his back on the bed in his bachelor pad, looking out over the bay. He really was a lucky guy, he thought to himself. But, he mused, he was worth it.

The telephone rings. Probably that Cynthia bird, with some sort of damn-fool question again. He rolls over the bed and retrieves the latest mobile from the bedside table, “Ellooow, Ben here.”

“Hi Ben, darling,” the sweetest voice he’d heard for many a day, “You won’t know me, but my name is Celeste. My older brother is Hiram Graham who plays for the Golden Arrows. You know him, not so?”

“Naturally, Celeste, I know most of the regular boys on the team,” Ben exaggerated. He recalled that Hiram had been the fellow who had organised his complementary tickets.

“Well, Ben darling, I was just wondering…. I was just wondering whether we couldn’t perhaps go to tonight’s game together… as a… you know… as a couple.”

It was coming back clearly to him now. Celeste was the blonde number who’d been junior drum majorette leader, and had subsequently won a string of beauty and personality contest. She had also graduate from college a few years earlier cum laude. She was more than a pretty lass, she could do intelligent conversation as well.

“Celeste, just hold on a moment. I need to turn the telly down, so’s I can hear you properly,” Ben desperately needed to buy some time at a discount from the wholesalers, as he muted the phone. Cynthia or Celeste? Celeste or Cynthia? Both were pretty girls, both… But was Cynthia capable of stringing more than three words together? He had never yet had any intelligent discussion with her.

He un-muted the phone, “Hi Celeste, that’s better, now I can hear, thanks. What were you saying before the line broke up?”

“I was wondering whether we might go to the game together to-night?”

Celeste or Cynthia. He had already made the date with Cynthia. Could he simply just drop her for this blonde bombshell, the sister of a key player and hero in the local football team? Think quickly, Ben chided himself for indecision. It’s now or never.

“Sure, it’ll be my pleasure, I’d love to, Celeste. Shall I pick you up at… say around 7:30? That will give us tons of time to settle in before the game. Oh, and wear something warm and woolly… although we’ll be in the hospitality suite for most of the night…” Ben faltered a bit, his mind racing ahead, “so 7:30 at your place?”

Ben lay back, pleased at his “catch.” Cynthia? Hell he should do something about Cynthia.

                                                                 * * * * * * *

Saturday  7:20pm
Outside Gate number 7 at the stadium, Cynthia stood waiting, watching the groups of people and couples, going through the turnstiles for the game. She kept her eyes peeled, looking down towards the car-park, where she would see her date arriving in the next few minutes. The gate was fairly wide, so that she needed to pay careful attention to the folk passing that line.

She was starting to feel a bit embarrassed at her alone-ness, but nevertheless keep looking out. Then her mobile started ringing.

“Hi Cynthia, darling, “Ben’s voice croaked over the phone. “Man, I’ve been down heavy with the flu since Wednesday morning. I’m still running a high temperature and the doctor says I should stay in bed until Monday or Tuesday.”

“So, our date’s off? I shouldn’t go to the stadium, then?”

“I’m afraid there’s no way I can even go outside, with this dose of flu, but I’ll make it up to you next time, perhaps. Ok, bye for now.”

Cynthia’s voice choked as she accepted the stand-up, “Yeah.”

She stood against the wall, her head a bit dizzy with anger. She tried to keep up the appearance of someone waiting for her date, rather than walking against the tide of oncoming spectators. She just waited and waited.

On the far side of the gate entrance, something strange caught Cynthia’s eye. A couple arriving from the car park, the guy wearing a distinctive red jacket and hood. She knew that outfit. It was… no, surely not, she struggled to accept the obvious.

On Ben’s left arm, was a shapely young woman with beautiful long blonde hair, “So, that’s what your flu looks like, Mr Smarty, you lying beast,” Cynthia said out aloud to herself. She struggled to fight back the tears from welling up in the corners of her little eyes.

She watched as the bright couple walked towards the turnstiles, entering at the point marked “Home Team Suite.” Then she recalled the name of the blonde on Ben’s arm, that was Celeste Graham, the celebrity drum majorette leader, or something.

As the couple disappeared into the stadium, Cynthia bit her lip had, fumbled for some cash in her purse and was in the stadium with enough time to spare for the start of the game. She really wanted to see the game, and had agreed to accompany Ben as a secondary aim. She wouldn’t let this two-timing liar spoil the match of the season for her.

As she stood up to stretch her long shapely legs at the half-time intermission break, a plan suddenly dawned on her. As many of the spectators were rushing down to the hamburger and drinks stands below, she scooted across the rows of seat and up to the VIP promotion suites, until she arrived at the staircase marked “Golden Arrows Promotions.”

Up the dozen or so stairs, and Cynthia reached the unguarded door. It was open. She strolled in and look at the few groups of VIP spectators sitting with their snacks and drinks. A waiter came over, to enquire if he could help.

“Won’t you please ask that gent in the red suit over their, next to Miss Celeste Graham, that I’m here to see him. Please, I’d appreciate it.”

Moments later, Ben strolled across to the door, with all eyes in the room on him.

Cynthia had made up her mind. She had decided that, despite the fact that others may disagree with her methods. She stood firmly in the doorway, spoke firmly without faltering in a clear loud voice, “So this is what the flu looks like, Ben?”

“This is the terrible condition,” walking across top a point near Celeste’s chair, “that caused you to have to lie to me as to why you were breaking off our date?”

She smiled briefly at Celeste, “Good luck with his lies, Celeste. Just take care.”

She walked carefully back to the door, turned around and addressed all present, “I am really sorry if I disturbed anyone. I trust you all will enjoy the second half of the match, as much as I will. Bye for now”

[ 1,485 words ]

[The brief for Day 6 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads: Write a story that includes: twins, a 12-layer cake, a house that seems to be haunted but isn't…]

Writing Challenge : Day 4

 

The instruction for Day 4 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[Brief: Think of two very different people you know. Invent a character who combines
characteristics of both of them. Then put this character in a stressful family
situation...]

The instruction makes sense. But the difficult bit is the words “very different”. Of course, the question is: how believable will the so-called stressful situation be?

I do not currently know either of the two people I have chosen, but have known each of them in my past. As many of my readers might recognise either or both of them, I choose to make some minor adjustments to their situations, characters or habits. Quite naturally, I am not using their correct names…

Thomas and Richard were two very different people.

The Rev Thomas McCuddy (known as “Tom”) was a diligent and devout Anglican priest, about 30 years of age, who served in conjunction with Father Jackson and Rev Petersen at a church in an underprivileged community in the south of Johannesburg.

Richard Smithers (known to his pals and the police as “Dick”) was the son of a wealthy mining magnate from one of the affluent northern suburbs of Johannesburg.  After dropping out of high school, Tom teamed up with a group of no-gooders, who saw the possibilities of having a friend with an endless supply of ready cash on tap. One thing led to another, mostly drugs and drink, and, eventually, the police. He was not imprisoned for his misdemeanours, which were classified as “minor”, which in turn meant that he did not learn anything from his brush with the law. He got to know the police department more intimately for a fifth and sixth time, at which point he was locked in a holding cell overnight.

It was the morning after this particular night when Dick spent the small hours in the cell of the police station, that Tom just happened to visit the facility for the purpose of saving souls, as he frequently did. When he met Dick, he sensed that this young man was not your common petty criminal. He could see past the dirty veneer and past the alcohol-laden breath. As was his style, he had an arrangement with the duty officers that he would take responsibility for the welfare and behaviour of “minor” troublemakers, in the name of the church.

Tom explained the situation to Dick, and that he had a small but clean room on the property at the church, and that he would find chores which Dick could do in exchange for his food and lodgings. He made no promises of grandeur, no luxury or exotic meals, but he could guarantee a lifestyle which did not include police holding cells, for proper and lawful behaviour.

Dick had reached the point where he knew that any  way forward  in prison would be the start of a slippery slope towards the end. The situation as explained by the priest made perfect sense, so he shook hands and he was release within the hour into the care of Rev Thomas McCuddy of the St Mark’s Anglican Church, Diagonal Street, Rewlatch.

“Holy shit, your reverendness, you’ve got a crappy car for a top bod of the kirk,” was Dick’s first comment as they left the parking lot of the police yard in a battered Ford Anglia 1100, “How about a fag? Those buggers in the cop shop are as stingy as hell, the bastards – won’t even give a guy a smoke.”

“You can start by calling me Tom, Richard. And I do not smoke, nor do I condone the foul habit, either. Behind this collar, I’m an ordinary guy, just like anyone else, and I do not earn a large salary, as our community is of meagre means, hence my transport is not of the latest model. But it helps me to get from point A to point B in reasonable comfort. I’m not here to impress.”

“Sorry, your rev… er Tom. And my friends call me Dick. I didn’t mean to be rude, and all, you know,” Dick replied.

And so it came to pass that Tom found many odd jobs for Dick, who gradually saw the folly of his ways and the damage that his mis-spent youth had caused. Dick mowed lawns and weeded pavements, washed cars, cleaned windows, and assisted a furniture removal company. His transformation was almost a miracle, and it seemed to hinge on the fact that he no longer had contact with the petty crime rings, and, more probably, he no longer had access to liquor or drugs.  Dick was rapidly being transformed back into the Richard of old once more.

The parish parsons lived in a 4-roomed cottage at the bottom of the church grounds in Diagonal Street. They shared a communal bathroom, a large dining room and a cosy little sitting room with a little fireplace for the cold winter nights and a television set donated by a member of the congregation. Richard occupied Room 4 at the back next to the bathroom during this time, and paid his own way towards food from earnings derived from all the odd jobs offered by members of the parish.

Richard had slowly become more accustomed to the daily evening prayer after the nine o’clock news, and participated when asked, if he felt able to do so. His style of talking had changed from the loose-living coarse jargon to the new revised proper English without the use of foul language.

And so it came to pass that Tom, whose elderly parents, his father also a parson, got a call from his mother inviting him to dinner in their Boksburg home the next Friday evening, to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

“And bring your new friend Richard along as well. Father agrees, from what you’ve told us, he sounds like a real interesting and colourful character. See the both of you at seven, darling.”

Friday evening arrived pretty smartly. Just before 7:00pm Tom and Dick arrived at Tom’s parents’ home in Boksburg in the cream and blue Ford Anglia 1100. His mother came down the steps to meet her son and his guest, and took them into the lounge for proper introduction to Tom’s dad.

As an appetiser, Tom’s mother poured out generous helpings of Sherry to open the conversation, which would naturally include tales of Richard’s reformation.

A tasty supper ensued, with idle chatter, mostly Tom’s mother questioning him about various matters regarding his parish, and the work that he had been doing. Tom’s father and Richard did not participate actively, and concentrated on their plates.

After dinner, Tom’s father rose from his chair and beckoned to the others to follow him to the lounge with the cosy fire. He poured generous helpings of Cognac, which he saved for those “special” occasions. This was apparently a special occasion.

Richard thanked Tom’s mother for the meal and complimented her on the way she had prepared the meat dish, especially.

“It is only a pleasure, lad. And it’s so good to see that there are still some young people around with manners. Don’t you agree, Bill?” This was the first time that Richard became aware of Tom’s father’s name.

Now, remember that a period of six or seven months had gone by during which Richard had been a teetotaller. That had been a condition under which Tom had been granted “custody” by the police.  When the spirit beverage touched his tongue, it was like honey from heaven, countless pleasant memories flooded back, as his blood pressure rose with the juice entering his circulation. And with this change, the looseness of his tongue increased proportionately.

Richard started speaking to Tom’s parents as if they were long lost friends, as he held his glass for a refill, and then another. Tom, a bit apprehensive, put up a brave facade and did not try to intervene in the distribution of the potent red juice.

“No, I have never been in a happier phase of my lie than since old Tom here rescued me from those fascist pigs who were only intent on destroying our lives simply for their amusement, rather than being real cops and hunting down real criminals,” Richard blurted out all of a sudden, changing the subject. “I was never actually imprisoned by a judge for any crime.”

“Oh, yes Richard, that is so nice to hear,” Tom’s mother smiled at Richard, “he is generous fellow and always shares with others.”

“You’re so right, Mrs Mac, Tom shares, he has even shared his bed on some cold nights. The rooms at the rectory are pretty cold, you know.” 

There ensued an awkward silence for a moment, until Tom’s mother slowly and softly uttered, “Shared his bed…?”

“Our beds are not very big, and snuggling up under two blankets instead of one each, is much more pleasant,” he explained.

Tom’s father, who had been rather silent for most of the conversation, said nothing as he stared ahead and simply grunted, almost inaudibly . He got up and looked at the face of the grandfather clock, and croaked, “Oh look at the time, I guess we better let the boys be on the way, Martha. I’m sure Tom needs the time to prepare for his sermon for tomorrow morning.”

A few minutes later, the Ford Anglia was moving southwards, back to Rewlath. Neither of the occupants spoke for quite a while.

Then Tom glanced towards his passenger, “What on earth came across you to make up that nonsense about sharing a bed? Are you crazy or what?”

Another long silence, the Richard replied quite casually, “The conversation was getting quite boring, and I though a bombshell might liven things up, but it seems I was wrong. Sorry, man.”                                                           

                                                                     * *  * *  *  *

[  1,640 words ]

[  The brief for Day 5 of the 30-Day writing challenge is: Your character has a date but decides not to show up. Your character believes he/she has a very good reason for this decision (you decide the reason). But your character's date is furious and decides to make your character sorry… ]

If I Was A Rocket Scientist…

If I’d been a modern-day Noah, and if I’d been a rocket scientist, I could have built a rocket capable of long distance space travel. I could have appointed some other top rocket scientists to help me, and last 25 December I could have blasted off from a suitable rocket launch pad. If… such a small word.

But seriously, being the 26 September now, if the whole rocket thing was factual, then I’d be preparing to land on Mars, because… it takes nine months to get to Mars. It is possible to get to Mars in less time, but this would require you to burn your rocket engines longer, using more fuel. With current rocket technology, this isn't really feasible.

And nine months is the length of time we’ve been in New Zealand.

A more practical example might be Paul and Mary who might have announced at last year’s family Christmas dinner that Mary they were pregnant (note how modern I’ve become, by affirming that the couple became pregnant.) Anyway, if they had, then around about today, there would be a stack of to-ing and fro-ing on their Facebook pages with messages of congratulations on the arrival of Paulette or Marybert…

I also found the results of the Facebook Withdrawal Experiment, which lists the things one can do in nine months:
1. Develop a child within your womb (if you’re a human female).
2. Grow 4.5 inches of hair.
3. Watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Extended Edition) 532 times.
4.  Read the Harry Potter series 168 times (on an average of 1.5 weeks per read through of the series).
5.  Boil 36288 rounds of corn on the cob (on an average of 10 minutes per boil).
6.  Get an average night’s rest of 9 hours 672 times.
7.  Watch a butterfly appear from a cocoon after it makes it about 25.2 times.
8. Watch a reflux reaction react about…eh 6048 times.
9. You can also get used to not having Facebook as well, but start missing it as well.
I have been away from Facebook for 9 months. Let that sink in.

From our perspective, you can also plan, design and build a small extension to a house in New Zealand.

Buildlogue #33 -- Final Report

Today is 24 September 2014, with a dry breeze and reported 17 degrees. It feels more like 22 degrees, I guess. But, we’re not complaining, as the heat gives us a chance to catch up on some long overdue mowing.

The KCDC inspector has just signed off the building extension, subject to two very minor provisos, one for silicone at the top of the shower and the fitting of an additional smoke detector in the existing house,  and submission of guarantees to Council by the Roofers, Plumbers and Electricians.

We’ve come a very long way from Buildlogue #1 on 14 May. Our thanks to Builder John and everyone else who played a part.

Writing Challenge : Day 3

The instruction for Day 3 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief: Imagine you're looking through a collection of short stories. One of the titles
catches your interest. That's the story you want to read first. What might the
title be? Invent a title that would make you want to read the story. Now, write a
story to go with that title...]

On occasions I visit the local recycling transfer station to drop off recyclable household waste sorted into bins for cardboard, paper, plastics, green white and brown glass, tinplate and aluminium cans. Quite obviously there are materials which fall into other categories, items which can possibly be reused as discarded. One such category includes books, paperbacks and magazines, which can be purchased from the transfer station ‘shop’ for a nominal fee. It is here that I find interesting material…

The above paragraph was written last night. This morning I woke up in a panic with that totally blank dreaded ‘writer’s block.’ As Hamlet said in Act 2 Scene 2, “The plot’s the thing…” Yeah, I know, he actually said, “The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.” But, in my case, it’s a plot I need. Once I have the plot sorted, the rest should be as simple as ABC.
[End of Wednesday morning’s entry. I’m off to the greenhouse to complete the sowing of the seeds… perhaps ideas will develop...]

But I Thought…

The electric lights set in neat rows on the high ceiling above drown the scene below in exceptionally bright white light. There is not a single space in the room where the slightest shadow can be detected. A bank of electronic devices form an amphitheatre of screens and dials around the one end of the narrow flat bed in the centre of the room.

Two white-clad figures wearing surgeon skull caps and face masks stand in attendance next to the bed, one on each side of the still naked figure of a black bearded man. Whilst a couple of the monitors are plotting never-ending wave graphs in luminescent green and red, a number of others are emitting various pitched signals.

At the end of the room is a set of wide doors, stainless steel with painted wooden hand panel. A sign with neat red lettering proclaims “No Unauthorised Entry.”  At the other end is a rectangular glass window looking in from what appears to be a small room on the other side. One can just make out a face and shoulders of someone standing in that space looking through at the brightly lit scene. Above the window hangs a simple chrome-plated electronic clock . It shows 04:22

The two white-clad figures speak in muted educated tones. Professional.

“You know, I reckon we’ve done all we can. Look at these,” the taller of the two indicates to his colleague a set of electronic graphs on a large screen, “This has reached the critical point. The BP is too low to try anything else.”

“You’re spot-on, Carl,” the other replies, “Patient 78455 Time 03:22 Sunday 19 July 2009, check… Shall I go to inform him?” and he motions with his eyes towards the observation window at the end of the room.

                                                     * * * * * *

Ring. Ring.

Brad Withers looks up at the clock as he lifts the receiver from its docking station on the untidy desk of the little office inside the workshop building. It had a high pitched ceiling and a number of boats in various stages of assembly were standing around on dollies and platforms. In the far corner, a compressor burst into life.

4:05
Who on earth will be phoning at this time on a Friday afternoon, Brad wondered, “Hiya Honeywell SpeedCraft.”

“Brad, where are you? You know that I’m going down to Samantha for the weekend. You were supposed to have the car here by half-three! What’s your game?” The irate voice on the phone belonged to his wife Juliet.

“And Mona has been so looking forward to coming with us this time. It’s all I’ve heard about the whole week,” Julie ranted on. Mona was their 18-year-old daughter, for whom Brad would do anything. Her new association with Samantha, on the other hand, was deeply troubling to her proud father. But Brad had learned that it doesn’t pay to enforce bans on your kids. Not that Mona was a kid any longer; she had developed into a most attractive young lady over the last two years.

“Julie, I’ve had to work on the fine-tuning of the ‘SC170’ for the test runs, which we will have to do over the weekend. The customer will be here on Monday morning. I haven’t been sitting around on my arse, like you make out!” Brad paused to allow his message to get across, then continued, “Listen, I’ll be another quarter of an hour, half tops, then I will be home by… oh shit, it’s ten after already… I’ll try to make it by five.” Brad clicked off before his wife could offer any more encouragement.

Brad sat staring at the phone in its cradle, then at the clock on the wall for a few minutes, motionless, thinking. He pulled a crumpled pack of plain cigarettes from his overall pocket as he strolled outside the building into the deserted yard towards an untidy stack of wooden pallets.

He lit the tobacco with a cheap plastic lighter, blew the grey-blue smoke carefully away from the workshop entrance where the large sign declared, “Home of Honeywell SpeedCraft.”  The business was owned and managed by Wallie Honeywell, a good 15 years Brad’s junior. Brad held an engineering degree or two, was a whiz motor mechanic, and an acclaimed speed fiend, with a reputation both on water and on terra firma. Half of SpeedCraft sales were based purely on Wallie’s reputation in the speed arena.

Brad blew another lungful of fumes into the air. Wallie couldn’t tolerate the smoking habit and a number of arguments had resulted between the pair over it on and off during the past number of years.

“Julie is up to no good,” Brad said out loud to himself, as he considered the tone of his recent telephone argument. Samantha, his boss’s wife, was a socialite, with an eye for the guys and always ready for a drink and a laugh. Not the sort of company Julie should be mixing in. The fact that they were trying to draw his precious Mona into this style of loose living, angered Brad no end, but he hadn’t come up with a workable plan for an alternative. Wallie, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about what Samantha got up to. The two of them Samantha and Wallie, were slowly breaking down his already teetering relationship with Julie. And now Wallie is insisting on having this SC170 up and ready and firing on all cylinders before 8:00 on Monday morning for this big shot customer.

Ring. Ring.
In a few moments, Brad was back in the office, “Yeah?” He was not in the mood for any more fighting with Julie, she must just learn that his job comes first in instances like this.

“Yeah? Excuse me, but is that the way we answer the phone at the Home of Honeywell?” The voice of boss Wallie showed obvious annoyance at the Brad’s apparent lack of professionalism on the telephone.

“So sorry, boss. I thought it was the wife nagging again.”

“And what if it was an important customer? What sort of bloody impression would that greeting give him. I’ll tell you what sort – the sort that will take him elsewhere to buy his boats, somewhere where the staff are professional and courteous. Not bloody Yeah, you hear me?”

Brad could sense that Wallie had possibly not had a good Friday. He was inclined to be moody from time to time, but moodiness goes with the territory of champions, when things are not going their way.

“I said I was sorry. I thought…”

“No, don’t talk shit to me - You did not bloody think. I’ve had just about enough from your sort. It’s time to pull you socks up, matey, or else ship out.”

“It won’t happen again, boss. I promise. It’s just that my wife’s been pestering me about the weekend away with your wife, and I was supposed to drop the car off for her.”

Brad could feel the anger and resentment welling up within him. For a while, he had been sensing Wallie’s change in attitude, and his disregard for considering Brad’s needs. He had started treating him like a paid slave, rather than a friend-employee. The resentment was starting to border on hate…

“You just make sure that you have the SC170 at the slipway at 3:30 sharp tomorrow afternoon ready for the full works, including the 90-minute endurance, and don’t be late, hear?” With that final instruction, the call was ended.

                                                       * * * * * *

The SC170 slid easily off the trailer into the water on the slipway, crisp new paintwork gleaming in the bright Saturday afternoon sunshine. It is a high-speed flat-hull performance vessel, with a crew capacity of four. Ideal for deep-sea fishing and recreational water sports. Brad ties the boat at the mooring quay rented by Honeywell, the grey wooden slats creaking somewhat under his weight. He returns to the truck and takes the trailer to the parking yard.

“Hiya, Bennie,” Brad greets the yard-keeper and carefully manoeuvres the trailer neatly between the white lines of bay marked “Trailer 41” near the far end of the yard. Bennie’s ‘office’ is a timber shed with a large window overlooking the yard, with a clear view of the boat harbour and the bay beyond. He takes the large book from Bennie and logs in the SC170 as Vessel: ‘Honeywell 4872’, skipper: ‘W Honeywell’, crew ‘B. Withers’, Next-of-kin: ‘Mrs Juliet Withers’, Estimated time of return: Brad glanced at his wristwatch 3:15. He carefully entered ‘6:30pm’. Yes, that should give them the required two-and-a-half hours for travelling and all the trials as ordered by Wallie.

With ten minutes to spare before cast-off time, he shares a last cigarette and a joke with Bennie. He notices that the dark grey clouds had started gathering in the North, a possible sign of rain?

“You guys must watch your backs if the wind starts picking up, hey, my mate,” Bennie warned, “That sea over there doesn’t have respect for anyone, not even for a high-flyer like your boss-man. It doesn’t favour one fellow over the next. On the water, we’re all equal.”

As he reaches the jetty, he spots the athletic figure of his skipper and boss Wallie already at his post on Honeywell 4872, life-jacket strapped to his chest, strictly as per regulations. Wallie treats the water and the dirt race-track with respect, always using the safety equipment as designed.

Brad gives his boss a wave-salute, and casts off the mooring ropes as Wallie fires up the two powerful engines, preparing to leave the boat club harbour. Brad looks back towards the yard, in time to see Bennie giving his customary wave, his checked shirt fluttering quite strongly in the breeze...

Brad took up his post on the port side, while Wallie stood at the controls. Once more the feeling of rising blood pressure and anger started building up once more. It was something he couldn’t explain, something foreign to him. He found that he had started resenting his boss, something to do with his loss of control over his daughter, perhaps. Did this feeling of resentment contain any components of hate? Hate is such a negative emotion, something which Brad has never experienced before.

He bit on his molars, and took a series of deep breaths, looking straight ahead, like a good naval sailor. Damn, it was impossible to shake off these feelings of resentment… 

                                                  * * * * * * *

Brad has done an outstanding job on fine-tuning the vessel, which responds to every command. Wallie first puts it through its handling paces, like opening the throttle full from standstill, maintaining maximum acceleration for four or five minutes, then closing down the fuel suddenly. Turning the vessel every which way and high speed, performing dough-nuts, and tackling the swell at top speed side-on. If the craft can handle Wallie’s treatment under such conditions, then it will pass the safety standard required when under the control of an owner-to-be who might perhaps not be quite as deft as Wallie at handling it when faced with sudden unexpected critical situations.

The wind picks up as the boat passes the headland at Seal Point and out into the deep ocean. These are the ideal conditions for testing the SC170, the conditions which help the adrenaline flow through Wallie’s veins to every extremity of his lean muscular body. He is at home now.

As Seal Point fades into the background, Wallie re-checks the fuel levels and then adjusts the controls for Big One. The Big One is a standard Honeywell endurance test in which the vessel is set to top speed for a full 60 minutes, and then all the mechanical and electronic components are immediately evaluated against the standard specifications. 

“Set your watch, Brad. We’ll do 30 minutes out and then 30 minutes back. T60 and counting, mine’s set.” Brad noticed that the headwind had stiffened considerably, as his boss dropped his arm as a timing signal, and opened the throttle to 100%. The Honeywell motors roared in keeping with their deep-throated pedigree causing the bow to lift steeply skywards and the stern to dig scarily deep below the watery surface. This was the time for concentration, this was the time for truth…

At this stage of the testing, Brad’s duties were just as important as those of the skipper at the controls. He knew that an critical error on his part could conceivably causing a major malfunction, and lead to who knows what? As serious as complete engine failure at high speed, which could result in a catastrophic event, even death of the crew. 

Brad had been on many sea trials with Wallie. He was acutely aware of the details which he needed to check on a minute by minute basis. This was the most important part of the ‘full medical’ of the boat world, and he was the physician specialist. The work required accurate measuring of electrical currents, checking mechanical efficiency at various points, and the turbulent sea wasn’t helping much, either. It need his full concentration every moment of the 60 minutes, but Brad’s mind was elsewhere…

He mulled over the possible fate of his daughter. The negative influences of Wallie’s wife over her. Not the sort of life he had envisaged for his daughter. It was Wallie’s doing that he would be spending the weekend working on this boat, instead of being with his family, instead of spending valuable time with his daughter. He dropped the electronic multi-meter as he stepped towards one of the cover plates.

The dull thud of the instrument on the deck brought him back to reality. Good, Wallie had not noticed the mishap. The last thing he needed was to be accused of day-dreaming. Yet Brad knew instantaneously that he had faltered, that his mind was not on the task; it was on this ‘hate’ crusade, as it had been since Friday afternoon. 

The wind picks up even more, making handling the Honeywell even trickier. The swell deepens and Brad needs to concentrate like never before to retain his footing in the performance of his tasks. The deck has become a wet slippery slide and the spray increases. Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason, an unholy metallic grating sound, then a dull explosion and the motors cut out entirely.

                                              * * * * * *

A number of cars are parked along the wide driveway leading up the imposing mansion on Park Avenue. An illuminated sign set in river-stone announces “Honeywell.” The double-storey home is illuminated from every window, loud music reverberating around the property.

In one of the reception rooms, Julie Withers, cigarette in hand, sips white wine from an obviously expensive long-stemmed wine glass. She is wearing a tasteful low-cut tailored dress and is in deep conversation with a younger bearded man.

Her mobile phone rings discreetly in her handbag which is lying at her left elbow on a tall coffee table. She excuses herself from the conversation and answers as she walks out onto the open patio, into then strong breeze, leaving her daughter Mona to keep the young man company.

Mona can see her mother through the glass doors to the patio. She can see her speaking on the mobile for a few moments and then she stands motionless, staring out over the expanse of the darkened lawn. Then she turns and walks slowly indoors once more.

                                              * * * * * *

“This can’t be true, Julie. What did they say? Did you get hold of Brad? What does Brad say?” Samantha fired the questions at Julie, between the torrents of tears as they sped along the coast road towards the town, towards the hospital, Julie at the wheel of the black SUV.

“No, the Sea Rescue guys phoned from the boat yard. He simply said that the boat had run into trouble in the stormy sea and that Wallie had somehow fallen overboard or fell somewhere and got injured or something. He couldn’t tell me anything else, just that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital in a very critical condition. That’s all I know. Apparently the other crew member was Ok and was rescued.”

“I have tried a couple of times, but I cannot get Brad on the phone.”

                                            * * * * * * *

Wallie turns slowly away from the white-coated figure and slowly walks out of the hospital building, almost as if in slow-motion. Halfway down the steps, he encounters the distraught Samantha, Julie and Mona running up from the black SUV towards him.

                                            * * * * * * *

This is surely one of my most unimaginative attempts at creative writing. The word “cheesy” comes to mind, something I might have written in my teens? Under normal circumstances, I would have scrapped, but the Challenge advises that, “Many of the story ideas will take much more more than 10 minutes to write, but don't worry. Just get started, and at the end of the 10 minutes, decide if you want to continue.
If not, you can abandon the story guilt-free. You've done your job; you've put in your writing time for the day. If you're inspired to keep going, you can either write for a longer time or save what you've started and come back to it another day.”

[ 3,150 words]

[Brief for Day 4 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge:

Think of two very different people you know. Invent a character who combines
characteristics of both of them. Then put this character in a stressful family
situation...]

 

 

 

 

Writing Challenge : Day 2

The instructions presented for Day 2 of the 30-Day Writing challenge:

[Brief:  Write a story that includes: a tombstone, a first kiss, and a butterfly collection…]

It is unclear whether the three items need to be directly and inextricably linked or whether the story simply needs to include the terms. I will presume the former to be the requisite.

I have chosen the title: A Kiss from the Little Butterfly

I am the owner of a guest house which I classify as a residential hotel and a bed-and-breakfast in the dusty African town of Gaborone. It is an old building, which I bought from a deceased estate registered in South Africa eight years ago. When I previewed the property on the Internet site, I made up my mind that this would become mine, and it would become my “Hotel California.” 

And it came to pass that I moved to Gaborone to take proud ownership of the run-down and battered Hotel California. 

Being what I thought was a fair handyman, I paid next to nothing for the unwanted eight-bedroomed Colonial-style town house and spent most of my retirement investment capital on building renovations and upgrades, modernising the facilities and attending to the finer details of the furnishings, drapery and flooring with the idea of offering old-style fine living to the weary traveller. I commissioned a marketing expert friend from Johannesburg to design and fit the appropriate outside signage and web design, and so was born my real Hotel California.

It has worked out just fine, attracting many tourists throughout the year, and has resulted in a colourful and mentally rewarding retirement.

I employ a staff of two sober locals (and their wives on a part-time basis from time to time) to act as waiters, barmen, cooks and bottle-washers, gardeners, launderers and ironers and general cleaner-uppers. I act as manager, general repair-man, host and part-time entertainer to the guests on an as-and-when basis. My finger skills on my old guitar are not what you might call legendary, but my background tune-keeping is frequently applauded by guests.

I have a “permanent” full-time boarder who has been living here for over five years now. In fact, I have known Bryce for close on 55 years, on and off. We met at University in Johannesburg in the late sixties, both in the zoological disciplines. I dropped out after a couple of years and we lost contact. Some years later, we met on Facebook by pure chance, and most probably, because of our mutual interest in music and things zoological.

Being a baby-boomer and an old school dodderer, I was always sceptical about these new social media arenas, writing them off as a fad for school-kids. Then, after I had posted some pictures and stories about my purchase and renovation job, I had a call from Bryce.

“If you think you will be able to tolerate my incessant talking, I’ll like to apply for residency in one of your posh suites, mate. I’ve had too much of the rat race in the big city and I’m ready for your world, especially if there are insects and creepy-crawlies which I can stalk. How say you?”

It was a rhetorical question, and ten minutes later, I put down the phone and scribbled in the name ‘Bryce’ opposite suite 7, which in my opinion, is the spitting image of Bryce’s world and situated near the side entrance, conveniently close to the parking for his off-roader.

                                                        * * * * *

“Welcome back to Hotel California, Bryce. Come to the bar and you can tell me all about everything, like only you can.” He had just returned from two month-long trip to Australia and New Zealand.

Interspersed with travel snaps and videos, Bryce related with enthusiasm and in great detail, his many stopovers in Western and Central Australia, New South Wales and Tasmania, followed by both the North and South Islands of New Zealand. Much of his material covered mutual friends with whom we’d maintained contact since university days, as well as bugging field trips (BFT’s). BFT’s is an acronym for personal expeditions he undertakes to investigate and record the bugs, bees and butterflies. No actual specimens are collected (rules and regulations), but he takes most spectacular macro pictures, like the professor he is.

“And your encounter with the Butterfly? Bryce, tell me what happened which was so life-changing.”

By way of explanation, Butterfly was the nickname we gave to one of our Zoo classmates at university. She had the unique name of Brooke-Lynn Santana, a popular bubbly redhead, who was full of life and energy. Being South African, we found the family name a bit Spanish, but she always laughed it off by saying that her brother was Carlos, a good guitar player of the time.

It was during one of the classes, I forget the precise details, that Brooke started calling me Mantis, because my shaky mannerisms resembled those of a praying mantis when dissecting small insect creatures. I think it also had something to do with my lanky and awkward frame. I took the nickname in good spirit, and it has stuck ever since. In turn, I paid her a compliment by introducing her to others as “our Butterfly” and thereafter Brooke and her small group of close friends became known as The Butterfly Collection, to the point where they, as a sort of (non-professional) Marianne Faithfull – type country musical group in fact chose that as their stage name! Her signature tune was a guitar solo of “As Tears Go By.”

Needless to say, I lost contact with The Butterfly collection when I dropped out of classes and got caught up in the web of compulsory military conscription and border warfare in Namibia and Angola, which lasted too long and effectively ended my studies of bugs and butterflies. The military did not kill my passion for the guitar, though. I later heard that the Santana family had emigrated from South Africa to New Zealand, Brooke’s dad having been a successful farmer.

Here, Bryce starts becoming a bit more bashful in his tale. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for the redhead in the class, but he’s pursued the insects rather than the girls in those days. Now, fifty years later, he freely admits that he was actually totally infatuated by her, but had also felt inferior at the time, mostly because of her successes in the “entertainment” world, where he saw her as “everyone’s darling” rather than a one-guy gal.

“I met Butterfly on my last day in New Zealand, last Friday. In fact, the meeting was totally unplanned – I had forgotten that she went to New Zealand with her folks all those years ago. I lie, I hadn’t forgotten – the memory was simply tucked away somewhere near the appendices and footnotes, I guess.” Wry smile.

“This may take a while, because it was one of the highlights of my trip, even though the duration was most likely the shortest of all my visits and excursions. Probably less than half an hour. It happened in Christchurch on the South Island.” Again a wry Bryce smile.

“Last Thursday morning, my second-to-last day before flying home, I was checking through the local papers in my hotel room waiting for 10:30 when a round-the-town bus service would collect me for a city tour, when an article in the entertainment section under ‘music’ caught my eye.”

“There were three of four entries in the section, but the one name fell off the page ‘Santana-Steward.’ Hmm… I thought, one could possibly enjoy some local talent this evening? But something else fell off the folded page at the same time – the preceding word.” The style of story-telling was typical Bryce. He never gives the game away in paragraph one…

Without waiting for me to ask about the preceding word, Bryce continued, “The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I felt slightly faint – crazy…” Another wry smile, “You would never guess the name – Brooke-Lynne!”

“Here, look. I’ve kept the advert. It says: Resident guitarist Brooke-Lynne Santana-Steward and her Butterflies will be performing country-style at The Tombstone 12:51 while you enjoy your meal. Bring your own wine. Phone 09 756 1234 for bookings to avoid disappointment.”

“Crazy man… I dialled the number, not knowing how to start the conversation. I slammed the phone down. I was back in 1966, all thumbs and blushes. Her Butterfly is a performer in front of crowds, and I’m a simple old retired fart catching butterflies in the wild… The Steward part of the name would indicate a marriage. She’s probably married to this huge brute, probably an ex-rugby player. They’re pretty rugby-mad in that part of the world.”

“And, Bryce? And?”  At times like this, I wished he wasn’t so dramatic, “So did you get to meet this rugby giant or what?”

“When I finally made my booking, I asked the girl on the line. No, she’ told me, Brooke’s husband was actually the founder-owner of The Tomb, but he’d been tragically killed in the February 2011 earthquake, the only one in the establishment to have succumbed. After that, Brooke changed the name of the place by adding the 12:51 being the time of his death, in memory of her husband Jack Steward. No children.”

There was no mistaking the emotion in Bryce’s voice. He refilled his beer-mug and went for a pee before settling down to the serious part of his tale.

“And, Bryce? And, did you get to meet her? What does she look like now?” Bryce was enjoying my obvious impatience at hearing his tale.

“None of us look quite eighteen or twenty anymore, but she was unmistakably still the same little Butterfly, with hair not quite so scarlet anymore. She’s looked after herself over the years. I suppose not having kids would have helped in the figure department as well? But you know what, her physical body was the last thing I bothered to look at – she was still the same young little Butterfly, with that sweet clear Marianne Faithfull voice – it was just like yesterday…”

Bryce took a few more gulps of his brew, almost as if building up courage to retell of the encounter. We have no secrets, he need not be embarrassed. Bryce knew that.

“When we were finally face to face, I didn’t know what would be appropriate. I’d been going over the options all day already, still with no resolution. The girl’s husband had been tragically killed in this very room. She was most probably still a deeply grieving widow. She might misinterpret any silly action on my part… Should I simply shake hands?”

“But isn’t fate strange?” Bryce paused, eyebrows a bit twisted.

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but thankfully he didn’t give me a chance to reply, as he continued after yet another swig of brew, “It was probably the most wonderful moment of my life. Something I will never forget. Before either of us had uttered a single word, she stepped forward towards me, embraced me fully and tightly, almost like a long-lost lover, and kissed me ever-so-firmly on the lips, as if she was truly overjoyed to be with me.”

“’Bry, it’s been such a long time. I’ve missed you, Bry. I was madly in love with you at school, and you never responded, you fool.’ Then she gently pushed me away, and catching her breath, said ‘Do you realise that is the first time you have ever kissed me? It took half a century, and then you left it up to me to make the first move!’ Miss Brooke-Lynne Santana-Stewart would sing later, much later. She smiled as we sat down to our dinner table, and we caught up on half a life-time of events.” 

“You know, that is the truth. That was my first kiss with our Butterfly at the Tombstone.” A last wry smile from Bryce indicated the need for a fresh refill of the brown stuff.

* * * * *

[ 2010 words ]

The instruction for Day 3 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief: Imagine you're looking through a collection of short stories. One of the titles
catches your interest. That's the story you want to read first. What might the
title be? Invent a title that would make you want to read the story. Now, write a
story to go with that title...]

Writing Challenge : Day 1

The challenge posed for Day 1 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:
[  Brief:    Your character moves into a new apartment. On the surface, the place seemed
ideal, but his/her first night there, your character discovers a terrible problem with the place that he/she didn't take into account...  ]

Clearly the task hinges on the “terrible problem”, hence I will call the post… I’ll tell you what: we’ll give it a name later, after the ideas have hopefully start flowing. Ok?

Jerry Uniden adjusts the volume on his i-Pod, as he sits in the back of the taxi in the stormy black traffic of London this late November Sunday evening. He is on his way home… His new home, where his personal effects have already been dropped off earlier that afternoon by courier whilst he was still flight-bound to London Gatwick.

Bugger. I’ve been thinking ahead to the nature of the “terrible problem.” I need to confess in paragraph one of Day 1 of the challenge: I’m afraid I have a terrible problem myself… I need to discover Jerry’s phobia or personal problem… otherwise the story will not get off the ground...

Jerry’s apprehension is being fuelled by the unknown. Until now, he’s been protected under the wing of his Mamma, where he’s been living since leaving teacher’s college eight years ago. Now, after teaching piano at the Gustav Holst College of Music in Kenya and living on the farm with Mamma, he will be starting a prestigious job in London under the renowned composer-musician Sir Malcolm Butterford at the Sussex Gardens Academy.

The thought of working under Professor Butterford is causing apprehension... The thought of having to commute by tube train during peak hours in London is causing apprehension... The thought of where he will be living, living alone without the comforting wing of Mamma as protection, is causing apprehension… The thought of where he will find a place to have supper each night is causing apprehension…  At least, the apartment where he will live is not an unknown factor. At least, there’s no apprehension on that front.

Dwell on the positive. Dwell on the positive. That’s what Mamma has always said. Niki Apartments. His new home. That’s positive, that’s apprehension-free… From his inside pocket, he takes a DL ivory-coloured envelope. Printed on the back he can just make out in the dim light printed in dark green ink the words “Omega Lettings – long-term leases” and a Leyton address in smaller font. He carefully withdraws the document from its cover and looks at the photograph of the imposing building called The Niki once more. A bit on the posh side, but posh is good. Posh is positive.

The Niki is apprehension-free. Mamma had promised that his apartment is at the back of the building, adjoining a kind of portico garden with climbing creepers and shady trees. His unit is number 14A. That sounds positive. “A” is good. Frequently “A” is the best, as good as it gets.

He is not all that concerned as to whether he will have access to the gardens with creepers and trees, or to the gym which is located in the basement. Neither is he over-concerned about the open-air bar-b-que on the roof-top on the fifteenth floor, as he is not really into eating animal flesh, and certainly has no head for heights. Anything above his first floor A14 suite will really be a no-go area – he will rather die than go to the bar-b-que facility, even if they happen to offer a “vegetarian” cook-out! No thanks, he’ll most certainly stay away from that… 

Granted, the weekly rent for his garden-side suite is a bit on the steep side, almost half of his promised stipend. But this doesn’t present a problem, really, as Mamma can always organise a top-up draft from his investment income which comes from a handsome portfolio in his name after the untimely death of Mamma’s husband, Jerry’s late step-father. If the need should arise, it’s simply a matter of an email message…

He glances at his watch. Another five minutes and they should be arriving at The Niki. The Niki with his exclusive studio apartment 14A away from the noisy traffic at the back adjoining the peaceful portico garden with the climbing creepers and shady trees. Blissful country living in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. Blissful and apprehension-free. Yes. An accomplished pianist in his own right at the tender age of 27, Jerry is feeling good. Jerry is feeling successful. Professor Butterford, the tube and where to have supper, these are a bit of a cause for apprehension, but, by applying a bit of positivity, this will probably be the start of a great phase in his life. Bring it on!

He pockets the lease documents in their ivory-coloured DL envelope in his inside pocket, and relaxes in his seat, eyes closed while he imagines The Niki and his neighbours-to-be…

                                                               * * * * *

As the taxi drives away, Jerry picks up his travel case and trots up the three steps to the warmly-lit revolving door entrance of The Niki. Marble tiles adorn the hall floor, with luxurious walnut wall panelling and a just-audible recording of what Jerry recognises as the well-known ‘Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations’ playing over concealed speakers. He can live with this, he muses. Ah, the building directory: quite modern… electronic and high-tech, but not cheap, not like a station destination board.

There… “Reception – Lorna-Rose Portman : Suite C1”

He taps the little bell icon on the touch-screen. A sedate little ‘Ding!’ sound and the icon flashes on and off a few times. Ms Portman is apparently at home, and a soft feminine voice comes over an invisible speaker, “Jerry Uniden, I presume. Please go to the corridor marked ‘C Wing’ and I’ll meet you at my door which is number 1.” 

The rendition of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations then continues over the concealed speakers as before Ms Portman’s interjection. A few moments later he finds himself standing outside the imposing entrance door to suite C1.

“Jerry, welcome and do come in and sit down. We have no formalities here at The Niki, just call me Lorna-Rose.”

Jerry likes the name Lorna-Rose. So much better than an ordinary ‘Lorna’ or a common ‘Rose’, he thinks. Yes, he loves the name ‘Lorna-Rose’… so… fresh… so… so in keeping with the obvious tasteful standards maintained at The Niki…

Lorna-Rose is a shapely twenty-something, dressed tastefully in designer athletic wear. Perhaps she is on her way to the gym in the basement? She reminds Jerry of some or other television presenter or weather-forecaster. He decides that she will be a most agreeable neighbour, as she motions towards the coffee set on the table with enquiring eyebrows.

The coffee is strong and aromatic. The best he’s tasted for quite a while.

No apprehension about the neighbours so far. Much of the information Lorna-Rose is busy imparting is simply flowing over Jerry’s head, past his semi-glazed eyes. It must be the air travel from Kenya, followed by the trip from the airport, but he is not taking much in.

“But, I talk too much, Jerry. I’m sorry, you must be exhausted after your trip,” Lorna-Rose smiles, as she hands him an A4 folder. “This is our ‘Guide to The Niki’ which contains everything you need to know about your new home, and if you have any further needs, well, you know where to find me.” That smile again.

Jerry feels a bit flush as his cheeks redden ever so slightly. That smile again.

Lorna-Rose stands up and offers Jerry the single flat electronic door access card with A14 clearly engraved on the white background.

“Take the ‘A’ Block elevator to the fourteenth floor for your private luxury suite.” That smile again, “And, welcome once again, Jerry. I’m sure that living at The Niki will outstrip all your expectations.”

That smile again, “Oh, and of course the view of the city and the park below is to die for. Simply the best.”

                                                * * * * *

I would probably entitle this piece something like “A View to Die For” ?

[ 1270 words ]

The instruction for Day 2 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief:  Write a story that includes: a tombstone, a first kiss, and a butterfly collection… ]

30-Day Challenge

Some of us imagine we can tell stories, some of us imagine we can write those stories. I guess I may perhaps be one of those. There must be millions of writers using the English medium, but how many of them have we read?  I’m not much of a reader, but I hardly read what others have written. Perhaps it is a trend in the electronic age, where a majority of folks would rather watch a video for 120 minutes than read the same “story” in book form over a few days. Perhaps its all to do with lack of energy or enthusiasm. But, by ignoring the written stories, we are effectively telling the story-tellers that their efforts are really a waste of their time…

I have written a number of posts on this blog over the past few months, without knowing the reaction of readers. If any readers, in the first instance. If no-one writes a comment against any post, the writer has absolutely no idea how he should change his content or style to make the articles more acceptable. Perhaps, stop writing entirely, and join the world of readers out there?

I encountered a site which poses a 30-day writing challenge. They sketch a scenario for each day and then you need to write a piece, with at least 10 minute input, in line with their sketch.

I thought to myself, “How about giving this a try? At worst, the readers of this blog may simply skim through the titles each day and dismiss the writing.”

And what have I lost after the 30 days? But I can’t sit here musing: I have decided to accept the 30-Day Challenge. I’m not sure that I will be able to compose something even vaguely intelligent for every day, but I’m prepared to give it a go. Please pass comments wherever you like – good or bad, it doesn’t matter, as long as there are comments. If you’d prefer not to make “public” comments, please feel free to email me those comments to CHARTWELL.NZ@GMAIL.COM

Am I On The Grid?

A few months after moving into Dolphin Beach in 2006, I read a blog by Stanley Bing in Fortune Magazine. It was around the time that I’d got ants in my pants and was struggling with The Universe and the Meaning of Life, like Mont Python, except that there was no humour included --  just serious depressing but invigorating thought.

Having had no real father-figure contact on whom to bounce off ideas and from whom to get “answers”, I drifted a bit like an electron, I suppose, in something like a Hydrogen atom. That’s all a bit airy-fairy, but the image I had in my head was me the size of a flea on an ant’s ear crawling slowly over a landmass the size of Australia.

A few years earlier, I’d stood on a short exposed part of Hadrian’s Wall near Heddon. I looked at the large rocks and thought to myself at the time, “To think that Romans with slaves had brought these rocks from all over the show and then built this structure.”  Did Hadrian find the meaning of anything when they were building this, I wondered.

(Above): Part of Hadrian’s Wall where I strolled along in Northumberland near Heddon, while my fellow coach travellers were having a smoke-break. In the picture one can just see the B6528 route heading South.

I have toyed on and off with the idea of walking along the length of the wall, with overnight stays at appointed B&B’s. It can take anything between 7 and 14 days, depending on how intense you want your historical experience to be. I suspect it may take a bit of getting fit as well, if you really hope to “discover” any meaningful meanings…

Sometime later (still searching The Universe) I heard a radio travelogue by writer/ traveller Kate Turkington on her pilgrimage walk along the Compostela (Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain, or the “Way of Saint James”.) The idea of walking, say the last 100km bit me slightly, as the complete pilgrimage is rather daunting to the uninitiated 60-something-year-old.

Then you sit down and research these things a bit by reading what other say. “I am 89 and walking the complete Compostela was a right breeze. Easy peasy.”

Yeah, right. After a single 10km walk, I start feeling it… So, do we try the Compostela with the Spanish countryside, or the more costly Hadrian with English farmers and their sheepdogs? Its that physical thing of the uncertainty…

(Above):  Completely off the grid: A picture I took on a sunny August 2013 afternoon on an isolated part of the Cape west coast.

But, I’ve strayed off the point: I mentioned Stanley Bing: My apologies for the number of paragraphs, but this was written as I would have done…

“… I'm standing on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The surf is tremendous. In a field to my right, horses are grazing, munching on grass they pull up a clump at a time. A pleasant, ripping sound of roots being torn from the turf is audible under the crash of the waves as they leap up in curls of spume from the black rocks of the beach.

“… I am off the grid. This is a phrase I have heard only recently, possibly because it is new, possibly because I am no longer so new and hear things later than I used to. Off the grid. It has a nice feel to it. I get a picture in my mind: A huge, multi-layered matrix, populated by millions of teeming souls, working. They are dressed in way too much clothing. On their feet are shoes with many laces. Their belts are cinched tight. So are the things they wear about their necks. Each soul is bent to its labour. Each is linked to the others by digital lines of communication that hold the grid together.

“… I take in a lungful of air. There is no grid here on the edge of civilization, except ... to my right, at some distance, a fellow appears to be talking to himself. This is not so unusual, off the grid. I saw a guy yesterday on the street in conversation with an imaginary interlocutor, shirt torn, pants just about around his ankles. That far off the grid we may not want to be. But this man is different, I now see, for in his ear a bulbous Bluetooth pod feeds his auricular canal. "No," I hear him say. "I'll have to call you back on that later." He looks aggravated.

“… Even here, then, there is grid. It's not very easy to get off. Just this morning, as I awoke to the sounds of whippoorwills, I was pleased to see that my BlackBerry had 28 messages on it. I even replied to a few that called for a little something. Too much grid? Maybe. But I was able to have my coffee knowing that the grid was okay with me, that I had touched it just enough to feel safe letting it go for the next eight hours or so.

“… We want to be off the grid. I see and hear about that all the time, and not just out here where the trains have never run. The yearning expresses itself in strange ways sometimes. In an obsession with golf. In too many drinks after a day of grid. In the boat my friend Tom is building, which may never be finished but takes his mind someplace the grid can't follow.

“… In the collection of fountain pens my pal Jablonsky has been assembling for the past 20 years, a hoard so huge he had to build an extra room off his den to house it. In the vacation homes that call to us from the magazines we read. "My husband Larry and I were just floored by the beauty and charm of Hamahama h'oilani!" an ad reads. Concierge living! But how far is that from the grid, really?

“… And how much do we actually want to be off the grid, off the griddle? I see people like us here, trying to enjoy themselves in non-gridlike activities. Over dinner, couples stare at each other as if they're having trouble finding things to talk about, because being off the grid means avoiding grid-related discussion. What remains? Movies? Weather? Kids? Are they grid or non-grid? Last night I saw a woman checking her cellphone at the table while her husband went off to the restroom to have a peek at his BlackBerry. That's kind of ugly, people hanging on to the grid by one finger, afraid to fall into the emptiness beneath.

“… There's no question, though, that the space under the grid can be terrifying. For example, they distribute digests of the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal here. Is that necessary for anybody who sincerely wants to be off-grid?

“… And what of those who actually jump off? You see them selling coffee beans in little cafés that feature homemade banana bread, or shopping for organic bean paste at markets whose bulletin boards are swathed in flyers advertising shiatsu massage and personal empowerment. Those little feuilletons trouble me. Don't they construct an alternative but still potent grid of their own? Is the goal to hop from one grid, gray and metallic, to another, green and with perfect feng shui, but a grid nonetheless?

“… Tomorrow I will be back on the grid. I will pass through the terrifying portal that is the contemporary airport, and boom, I'll be there. For a while my head will be back here, wrapped in the cosmic void that dwarfs the puny little lattices we construct to fill our days and make sense of ourselves. Then there will be a meeting, or a crisis, or some situation that needs my active intercession and ...

“… Ah, who am I kidding? It will be great to be home. …”

* * * * * * * * *

Footnote: Acknowledgement to Stanley Bing and Fortune Magazine for copyrighted text approx 2007.

Buildlogue #32–Sept 19

This is probably one of the last Buildlogues reporting progress (or lack thereof) of the construction of our North Wing extension. It covers the so-called “finishing” stages leading up to the final signing-off by the KCDC inspector, scheduled for next Wednesday 24th.

His task consists of checking the complete structure and infrastructure against the standard New Zealand building specifications, more specifically the electrical installation and the plumbing and wastewater disposal systems, which have not been checked past the pressure-test phase.

The gas installation is complete, waiting for the Rockgas technicians to come to inspect the gas storage and heater hardware, scheduled for later to-day. The plumber is currently busy installing the rest of the sanitaryware, the mixer/taps and drains, and then he has a problematic issue of locating the sani-pump (a mixer-mincer-pump to pump the sewerage from the sump outside the bathroom  up through the roof of the garage and down to the septic tank connection in the front of the house.)

(Above): Inside – The lights are on and the bedroom and sitting-room are complete…

(Above): Outside – A shot of John and Marcel fitting the seat/railing to the existing deck in the brilliant September afternoon sunshine.

I have virtually completed the exterior painting, but have put the job on hold because of the intermittent showers which threaten to wash off the undried paintwork. Monday is set for the final gutter placements, built-in cupboard installation, fitting TV bracket, and door handles.

The decks have been completed, but do not form part of the planning inspection, so I can afford to delay the paintjob until the timber has dried out properly, perhaps midweek next week.

They say that September showers bring October flowers. Well, Ma Nature had better start doing the showers bit if there are to be blooms in October, because, until recently, the first part of September was virtually shower-less, last evening’s 39mm contribution being the lion’s share of 65mm for the month so far:

(Above) The Reikorangi Valley rainfall (mm) for September 2014, according to our rainfall gauge.

On the “flowers” side of the equation, the trees and shrubs have got off to a good start as the weather warms up day by day and our switchover to daylight saving looms next Sunday evening (28th).

Located at the start of the earth day, I can only presume that this is where the original “Big Bang” occurred quite a while ago, and then all Hell broke loose… Isn’t it amazing how small New Zealand looks when drawn on a world map? We know that this is purely a perspective thing because of the “corner” location, otherwise how could they fit 40 million sheep and 6 million cows in? (In 1982, the sheep population peaked at a tad over 70 million).

Who is counting these sheep? Can’t he sleep, or what? 

Someone’s Been Sleeping in My Bed

Crime is never a matter to be taken lightly. Any crime. There is no question that each and every crime, no matter how “small” or “minor” it might be, has the potential of developing like a cancer and growing into something more heinous and criminal, if the habit is not nipped in the bud at source.

However, I have read some crime reports on occasions, which conjure up all sorts of perhaps not-so-serious images. An email from a member of the local Reikorangi residents’ group received this morning, for instance, relates a worrying incident. Not knowing the exact location of the incident, it is difficult to picture the circumstances which lead up to the deed. Please note that I am, in no way whatsoever, trying to make light of the situation – I’m simply thinking a bit laterally within the apparent situation.

The email reads (names and numbers redacted for sensitivity reasons):

Hi all,
A drunk broke into our house on Tuesday after lunch, slept in my daughter’s bed and helped themselves to the kitchen. Just wondering if anyone saw someone suspicious? If so, could you please contact me, Ph 293 5555 or the local police ph 296 5555 reference 140 916 6630.

Thank you! Melissa.

I presume that there is more to the incident than a soiled Weet-Bix bowl and some ruffled blankets?

Re-Enter the Possums

Its been a number of months since we’ve had any encounters with Possums, since the third week in April, in fact. That was when our Labrador siblings Benny and Sophie cornered and captured one near the Walnut tree.

Now in Mid-September, with the juicy leaf and flower buds sprouting out all over the gardens and surrounding natural wooded areas, Clayton has detected the presence of a young possum in the trees at the bottom end of Goat Hill. Despite their cuteness when viewed close-up and dead, they are one of the most terrible pests in New Zealand, being responsible for more damage than any other creature. We have a vested interest in our fruit trees, which will be supplying the 2014/15 fruit crops, as well as being custodians over the natives growing on the property. A possum trap is what is needed.

The following three photos represent part of the area in lower Goat-Hill which may be where we will trap the possum. Not such an easy terrain to located and flush out the vermin!

Paint Me A Picture

It’s Monday 15 September 2014 and the sun is shining down on our building site, a veritable hive of activity, as the electricians, deck carpenters, gibber and painting contractor all go about their business at the start of this week.

We are due for the plumber/ gasman to do most of the water-heater and sewerage treatment engineering work later this week. The gas suppliers will also make the first delivery of two 45kg cylinders of Rockgas, do the connection certification and check the system for leaks, etc.

The door handles and other fiddly bits to doors and windows will also be completed.

It is gratifying to see the painters finally tidying up and rolling up their drop-sheets for the final time. Their job is complete. Like Michaelangelo told the Pope when he was taping up the Sistine Chapel before getting on with the undercoat, “This may take a bit longer than a week, mate…”

Our ceiling didn’t quite turn out like the ‘Creation of Adam’. Ours has a bit more white… actually completely white…  and with fewer characters playing finger-finger….

Photos of the finished painted areas will not be all that exciting to look at until the furniture and accessories have been positioned or fitted. Meanwhile, for the record:

(Above): Standing in the sitting room looking into the bedroom with the French doors on the left. The head of the bed goes against that far wall. The ceilings and trimwork are painted while, and the wall surfaces are finished in a light duck-egg pale green –blue colour.

(Above): Also standing in the sitting room and looking into the bedroom, with the bathroom door on the near right and the dressingroom / walk-in wardrobe door next to it.

(Above): Standing in the bedroom (roughly where the headboard will be standing) with the French doors to the deck on the right and a tiny bit of the bathroom door just visible in the left corner, looking towards the sitting-room, and the entry door, leading through to the family living room in the main house.

As a footnote, let me recount a lesson I have learned: For a number of days I have not been impressed by the painters at all. Their time-keeping was terrible, the amount of work they managed to finished each day seemed unnoticeable. I was most unimpressed, and I was sure that I would have done a far better job.

Now that the painting is over, I’ve changed my tune a bit. Actually, I’ve changed my mind completely by about… 98%  Yeah, totally… The finish these guys end up with is superb and the quality of the cutting-in is unbelievable. South African painters simply don’t deliver a job anywhere near these fellow. Well done to Brian and his men!