I found a dead penguin on the beach. It was one of those tiny ones that act the clown behind the glass curtains of the zoo enclosure. Well, this one was waddling no more.
The body was surrounded by penguin sized footprints on the sand, thousands of them. ‘This is strange’, I thought to myself, ‘Penguins don’t usually swim anywhere near the coast up here’. It must have been killed in a storm and then washed up on the beach with the incoming tide. I supposed the footprints must belong to its mates who had come to pay their last penguin respects. Stranger still, there was a penguin sized rock lying next to the corpse. You don’t usually see rocks on the beach, either.
Very peculiar.
I consulted a couple of dog walkers and they agreed that this was indeed an unusual sight. I decided to take the rock and possibly draw an outline of the little bird on its surface. (I know, I’m a crusty hippy) It seemed like a good thing to do and besides, I hadn’t drawn anything for ages. Carrying the rock in one hand and my wet bikini rolled up in a sarong in the other, I climb the coastal path back to the hostel.
I bump into Bob on the way there. I describe the finding of the penguin and show him the rock that is to be painted in its remembrance.
His eyes widen and he looks a bit pale.
“Is that the penguin?”
He is now staring intently at my other hand.
My soggy sarong is suspiciously penguin-sized…
“Erm, no it isn’t, Bob. It’s just a small kitten that I sacrificed to please the Penguin god of the sea…”
He grows even paler…
“Oh come on! I’m not THAT weird! I’m joking!”
It seems, however, that Bob has a different sense of humour. He gives me one last sickened look before running away, never to be seen again…
Joke.
He was fine, just a little confused.
20 May 2005
You know you make me wanna ...
Maybe there’s something in the air, but I now find myself partaking in random acts of shouting.
First was the incident of the cruise-liner in Auckland. I had been reading a book at the water’s edge all morning when I was suddenly jolted by an excessively loud horn. The massive white and chrome sea-casino was leaving port, heading to Australia. There were people on the decks waving their pashminas and feather boas at us, we the humble commoners of the jetty. It was too much for a sensitive leftie-hippy-politico-feminist-eco-warriorette like myself. How dare they flaunt their neo-capitalist filthy lucre in my face? Instead of cheering and wishing ‘Bon Voyage!’ like all the other slaves of hierarchical feudal society, I decide to holler my own message of farewell. “f***ers!”
Besides, it was funny… (Sorry, Mum.)
Then came the episode of the hired campervan.
I was hitching at the side of the road when a convoy of mobile-home/campervans trundled towards me. Vans like these NEVER pick up hitchers so I stood in bemused repose, resting my thumb. They roared past one by one, ‘Kiwi Hire’, ‘Maui Rentals’, ‘NZ Escape’ and then, emblazoned across both the roof and side panels…
‘Affordable Campervans’.
“Cheapskates!” I cry.
Surprisingly enough, they didn’t stop for me.
First was the incident of the cruise-liner in Auckland. I had been reading a book at the water’s edge all morning when I was suddenly jolted by an excessively loud horn. The massive white and chrome sea-casino was leaving port, heading to Australia. There were people on the decks waving their pashminas and feather boas at us, we the humble commoners of the jetty. It was too much for a sensitive leftie-hippy-politico-feminist-eco-warriorette like myself. How dare they flaunt their neo-capitalist filthy lucre in my face? Instead of cheering and wishing ‘Bon Voyage!’ like all the other slaves of hierarchical feudal society, I decide to holler my own message of farewell. “f***ers!”
Besides, it was funny… (Sorry, Mum.)
Then came the episode of the hired campervan.
I was hitching at the side of the road when a convoy of mobile-home/campervans trundled towards me. Vans like these NEVER pick up hitchers so I stood in bemused repose, resting my thumb. They roared past one by one, ‘Kiwi Hire’, ‘Maui Rentals’, ‘NZ Escape’ and then, emblazoned across both the roof and side panels…
‘Affordable Campervans’.
“Cheapskates!” I cry.
Surprisingly enough, they didn’t stop for me.
Sound Waves...
On the forest track down to the beach you suddenly come to a clearing. When the swell is pumping and the waves are clean and perfection itself, a roar echoes through the valley. As you step into the clearing there is a sudden growl from the ocean. It’s like the cheer of a psyched -up crowd on match day at a local derby…
‘I’m here, I’m here! Hang on, I’m on my way!’
‘I’m here, I’m here! Hang on, I’m on my way!’
Beard stroking moment #1...
Why do people get so gooey-eyed over butterflies and then smash a slipper over the head of a moth?
singin' in the rain...
There’s been flooding across the whole of the North Island this week. Houses have been washed off cliffs, posh cars are now bobbing about in the sea and several people have narrowly avoided death through landslides. We had our own drama in Raglan and surprise, surprise, yours truly was right in the middle of it.
It had been raining on and off all morning and so I’d put on my ‘Raglan Netball’ anorak, rolled up my jeans and shuffled along the road until I was picked up by a kindly motorist. By the time we pulled into town, the rain had stopped and it was a bright sunny day. Typical.
Off comes the anorak and sweater as I pop into the internet place to have a chat with Mark. (He lets me use the computers for free, now that I’m a local). As I leave the shop I notice that the sky has gone black. It’s still dry but obviously not for long and so I dash across the road to 4 Square supermarket. Inside, I can hear the rain but not see it.
It sounds heavy.
Everybody is nervously looking up at the tin roof, half expecting it to give way any minute. As I pay for my raspberry choc logs and yoghurt I can see the car-park outside. It looks like a river. I even had to rub my eyes like some comic book picture of disbelief. I probably shook my head, too.
Once outside, under the shelter of the supermarket overhang, I can really see how wet it is. There’s a gaggle of OAPs, also cowering from the weather, beside me. They look pretty stoked. This is a real adventure. Oh yes, they’ll be dining out on this tale for a while. The main road is now a torrent of muddy swirling liquid. It’s knee deep. I can tell because the cars that are trying to drive up the hill have water up to the top part of their huge 4x4 wheel trims. They are not getting very far.
It slowly dawns on me that I’ve got to hitch a ride home in this. The only decent hitching place is completely open to the elements. All of them, especially rain.
As the rhythm of raindrops hitting tin roof slows down a fraction, I decide to make a break for it. I fling off my flip-flops and wade across the road. I think I had about fifty spectators. Halfway in, the gnarliest section of the crossing, someone shouts out, “Hey you!”
I stop.
I turn towards the voice.
It is coming from a jeep with the driver’s window wound down a fraction. “You play netball, don’t you?”
“Erm, yeah.”
“I’ve seen you play, you’re really good.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
“Where are you from?”
I’m beginning to feel a tad foolish as I stand marooned in a muddy river, surrounded by people watching the rain and the crazy bird wading through the flooded road. Questions about my national identity and netball playing prowess seem a bit out of place right now.
“England”, I answer. I can feel amused eyes evaluating my ridiculous situation. I know that I am centre stage in literal street theatre. I feel silly.
The conversation continues despite my subtle and not-so-subtle efforts to make a dash for it. I still have no idea who is in the car and it is still raining. Eventually the voice from the Jeep says, “Well, I’d best be going, can’t hang around here in this weather!”, and they resume their slow journey up river.
I put on my best ‘I know how hilarious that was for you guys’ face and slowly swim-walk to the pavement. Everyone is smiling at me. How nice. Such a friendly town.
I’m picked up almost as soon as I stick out my thumb.
“Saw you in the road back there. I guess you’re pretty wet now. Thought you might need a lift... teehee….” Oh well, no point getting embarrassed about public humiliation, I’m pretty used to it now and to be honest I quite enjoy being the village idiot.
It had been raining on and off all morning and so I’d put on my ‘Raglan Netball’ anorak, rolled up my jeans and shuffled along the road until I was picked up by a kindly motorist. By the time we pulled into town, the rain had stopped and it was a bright sunny day. Typical.
Off comes the anorak and sweater as I pop into the internet place to have a chat with Mark. (He lets me use the computers for free, now that I’m a local). As I leave the shop I notice that the sky has gone black. It’s still dry but obviously not for long and so I dash across the road to 4 Square supermarket. Inside, I can hear the rain but not see it.
It sounds heavy.
Everybody is nervously looking up at the tin roof, half expecting it to give way any minute. As I pay for my raspberry choc logs and yoghurt I can see the car-park outside. It looks like a river. I even had to rub my eyes like some comic book picture of disbelief. I probably shook my head, too.
Once outside, under the shelter of the supermarket overhang, I can really see how wet it is. There’s a gaggle of OAPs, also cowering from the weather, beside me. They look pretty stoked. This is a real adventure. Oh yes, they’ll be dining out on this tale for a while. The main road is now a torrent of muddy swirling liquid. It’s knee deep. I can tell because the cars that are trying to drive up the hill have water up to the top part of their huge 4x4 wheel trims. They are not getting very far.
It slowly dawns on me that I’ve got to hitch a ride home in this. The only decent hitching place is completely open to the elements. All of them, especially rain.
As the rhythm of raindrops hitting tin roof slows down a fraction, I decide to make a break for it. I fling off my flip-flops and wade across the road. I think I had about fifty spectators. Halfway in, the gnarliest section of the crossing, someone shouts out, “Hey you!”
I stop.
I turn towards the voice.
It is coming from a jeep with the driver’s window wound down a fraction. “You play netball, don’t you?”
“Erm, yeah.”
“I’ve seen you play, you’re really good.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
“Where are you from?”
I’m beginning to feel a tad foolish as I stand marooned in a muddy river, surrounded by people watching the rain and the crazy bird wading through the flooded road. Questions about my national identity and netball playing prowess seem a bit out of place right now.
“England”, I answer. I can feel amused eyes evaluating my ridiculous situation. I know that I am centre stage in literal street theatre. I feel silly.
The conversation continues despite my subtle and not-so-subtle efforts to make a dash for it. I still have no idea who is in the car and it is still raining. Eventually the voice from the Jeep says, “Well, I’d best be going, can’t hang around here in this weather!”, and they resume their slow journey up river.
I put on my best ‘I know how hilarious that was for you guys’ face and slowly swim-walk to the pavement. Everyone is smiling at me. How nice. Such a friendly town.
I’m picked up almost as soon as I stick out my thumb.
“Saw you in the road back there. I guess you’re pretty wet now. Thought you might need a lift... teehee….” Oh well, no point getting embarrassed about public humiliation, I’m pretty used to it now and to be honest I quite enjoy being the village idiot.
Don't have a cow, man...
Never seen that before.
A woman comes flying out of her house, jumps off a five foot deck into the field where a cheeky calf is nibbling on a fence post, grabs a piece of wood to use as a javelin, hurls the thing at the wee cow, yelling ‘Noooooooooooooo!’.
The calf ducks the missile and shimmys away from her aggressor towards sibling calf and the relative safety of the other side of the paddock.
Even animal husbandry is extreme in New Zealand.
A woman comes flying out of her house, jumps off a five foot deck into the field where a cheeky calf is nibbling on a fence post, grabs a piece of wood to use as a javelin, hurls the thing at the wee cow, yelling ‘Noooooooooooooo!’.
The calf ducks the missile and shimmys away from her aggressor towards sibling calf and the relative safety of the other side of the paddock.
Even animal husbandry is extreme in New Zealand.
To see or not to see...
I've somehow developed a lazy eye. It's crept up on me over the past few years but until yesterday I was in denial. Browsing through a multitude of digital photos, however, I notice something odd. My right eye is always at half mast...
Lazy!
So that's why I always look two sheets to the wind- and I just thought I had bad flash/blink timing.
Since there's nothing worse than looking smashed when it's actually the one occasion when you were sober - ( & merely the innocent victim of eyelid droopage)- i've taken steps to remedy the situation.
Basically, i'm sitting here with one eye closed.
And that's it.
I don't want to go to the opticians in case they tell me I need glasses.
And anyway, I remember Sharon Smith from St Josephs had an eyepatch to get rid of her idle eye, so it must work.
I even walked back from the beach and stumbled up the windy hostel driveway like this.
It's just like being a bit tipsy. No real concept of distance or what's going on beyond a limited range of vision. Now I walk like i'm drunk and look like i'm crazy.
Why am I so worried about this gippy eye, anyway?
Well, what might prospective employers think?
Lazy eye= Lazy arse
exactly.
I don't want any part of me to be lazy. Uh huh, not me b'wana.
Thing is, during this healing phase of left eye clenched shut and visual perception shot to pieces, I'm far more likely to be run over en route to any interview, nevermind about first impressions.
And even if I did make it to the point where i'm facing the panel, they'd take one look at my winking pirate face and show me the door. (Which i'd probably bang into on the way out...)
And dodgy old blokes keep winking back at me.
Lazy!
So that's why I always look two sheets to the wind- and I just thought I had bad flash/blink timing.
Since there's nothing worse than looking smashed when it's actually the one occasion when you were sober - ( & merely the innocent victim of eyelid droopage)- i've taken steps to remedy the situation.
Basically, i'm sitting here with one eye closed.
And that's it.
I don't want to go to the opticians in case they tell me I need glasses.
And anyway, I remember Sharon Smith from St Josephs had an eyepatch to get rid of her idle eye, so it must work.
I even walked back from the beach and stumbled up the windy hostel driveway like this.
It's just like being a bit tipsy. No real concept of distance or what's going on beyond a limited range of vision. Now I walk like i'm drunk and look like i'm crazy.
Why am I so worried about this gippy eye, anyway?
Well, what might prospective employers think?
Lazy eye= Lazy arse
exactly.
I don't want any part of me to be lazy. Uh huh, not me b'wana.
Thing is, during this healing phase of left eye clenched shut and visual perception shot to pieces, I'm far more likely to be run over en route to any interview, nevermind about first impressions.
And even if I did make it to the point where i'm facing the panel, they'd take one look at my winking pirate face and show me the door. (Which i'd probably bang into on the way out...)
And dodgy old blokes keep winking back at me.
18 May 2005
Bird on a wire...
We have a pet bird in the stationhouse. Well, I say pet bird but really it’s a proper wild bird that has decided to help us with our fly problem. Each day it flies in and perches atop the snapped surf board in the lounge. It scans the terrain and then, in a flutter of delicate wings, zips around the room assassinating insect life. This happens up to four times a day, depending on prey population. And we love it.
However, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the same bird (lesser-spotted extroverted Fan Tail) was following me. For a full ten minutes this thing swooped and bowed towards my head as I walked down to the office. It perched on a twig near my shoulder when I stopped to chat to some dudes and then continued to dance its merry jig as I stomped up to clean the toilets. Maybe it’s my anorak? I thought, since it is the same colour as the Fan Tail’s feathers… nah, we already know this bird is smart, I doubt if it would mistake a lanky streak of blonde for one of it’s own.
I settled upon the rather pleasing idea of my having extra special ‘animal-friendly’ powers. Why not? I like cats and dogs and they seem to quite like me… I’ve never really been bitten, anyway. I thought of all the occasions when I had felt some kind of meaningful moment with other creatures. There was that time with the flea-ridden pregnant cat in Mykonos, and what about when that puppy peed up my leg? Surely that meant more than simple bladder relief? Well, it did now.
Then, this morning I had a horrible revelation.; an epiphany of miserable realization; an already crappy day turned more sour.
It’s trying to attack me, isn’t it?
The damn thing is trying to scare me off its territory.
I have no special powers, it isn’t trying to convey a Lassie-type message, “Timmy’s fallen down the well,” at all. It just wants rid of me.
Crazy fly-eating scum. That’s the last time I make whistling noises and coo at your ‘beautiful’ shiny tail. You can swoop and pirouette ‘til the cows come home, this six foot chick is still gonna traipse through your patch, beak-features.
However, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the same bird (lesser-spotted extroverted Fan Tail) was following me. For a full ten minutes this thing swooped and bowed towards my head as I walked down to the office. It perched on a twig near my shoulder when I stopped to chat to some dudes and then continued to dance its merry jig as I stomped up to clean the toilets. Maybe it’s my anorak? I thought, since it is the same colour as the Fan Tail’s feathers… nah, we already know this bird is smart, I doubt if it would mistake a lanky streak of blonde for one of it’s own.
I settled upon the rather pleasing idea of my having extra special ‘animal-friendly’ powers. Why not? I like cats and dogs and they seem to quite like me… I’ve never really been bitten, anyway. I thought of all the occasions when I had felt some kind of meaningful moment with other creatures. There was that time with the flea-ridden pregnant cat in Mykonos, and what about when that puppy peed up my leg? Surely that meant more than simple bladder relief? Well, it did now.
Then, this morning I had a horrible revelation.; an epiphany of miserable realization; an already crappy day turned more sour.
It’s trying to attack me, isn’t it?
The damn thing is trying to scare me off its territory.
I have no special powers, it isn’t trying to convey a Lassie-type message, “Timmy’s fallen down the well,” at all. It just wants rid of me.
Crazy fly-eating scum. That’s the last time I make whistling noises and coo at your ‘beautiful’ shiny tail. You can swoop and pirouette ‘til the cows come home, this six foot chick is still gonna traipse through your patch, beak-features.
17 May 2005
Erm, is this thing on...?
checking one, two, three....
YUP. I think I know what to do now.
Welcome to my blogspot, you lucky, lucky things...
Give me a week and i'll be flying.
YUP. I think I know what to do now.
Welcome to my blogspot, you lucky, lucky things...
Give me a week and i'll be flying.
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