The Kindness of Strangers

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I am not sure where Whetu lives. He seems to be a person of, as they say, no fixed abode. I know he “goes bush” sometimes, but whether that is literally or figuratively I do not know. I do know he has never asked to stay at my place, and I am sure that he and I can both interpret that as an act of kindness. Whetu is strange like that; he can be incredibly mercenary, yet equally generous, thoughtful and at times even introspective—as I found him yesterday when my cellphone rang:

ME: Hello.

HE: Kia Ora Bro.

ME: Whetu. Long time?

HE: Been down visiting the cuzzies.

ME: Oh? Where?

HE: Paremoremo.

ME: Day visit?

HE: Nah. Stayed a few nights…weeks. Give me time.

ME: The judge did?

HE: Nah. Me. Give me time to do some thinking. Examining my conscious.

ME: You have one then?

HE: Except when I have a few beers, then I loses it.

ME: So, what did all this self-examination produce?

HE: I has a dream bro.

ME: You has…have a dream?

HE: Yus. Just like that King fella that was on TV todays with those fellas from the Destiny Church. He had a dream.

ME: He did. A great one. And what did your dream tell you?

HE: That I won Lotto and I travels the world.

ME: Well, that would be right up there with Martin Luther King.

HE: But it come true Bro!

ME: You won Lotto?

HE: Nah. Not that part. But I gonna travels the world for all my days from now on. Stay all the choice places. Have some beers.

ME: That’s your destiny?

HE: You knows?

ME: We all have one. Destiny.

HE: Youse joining too? Ise just joining their haka party. Want nothing to do with the rest of them fellas. Theys strange bro.

David V Goliath of Depravity

Hone Harawira said it best: “Nice guys don’t last long in this game.” Attorney General Chris Finlayson described him is a good man, who had great experience in dealing with civil wars and humanitarian crises. But that, said Finlayson, was not enough to prepare him for the Labour leadership. "Nothing could have prepared him for dealing with that lot.”

Both neatly summed up David Shearer and his fate. David Shearer to all appearances seems a nice guy; yesterday all his friends and political foes said so. All except John Banks who called him useless. What is it about small men? And if Shearer’s adventures and bravery in the Middle East were perhaps a little over-stated—the Al Qaeda he would have likely met would have been much like Australian Masterchef’s Samira El Khafir, not dangerous, just vaguely annoying—he has nevertheless served this country well. Just in another environment.

Politics is not a nice place to be. Nor does it necessarily nurture and protect nice people. That was David Shearer’s problem: Little Red Riding Hood in the midst of a feral pack. Even so, he may have survived, but this week he committed the cardinal sin of politics and politicians. As a politician you can lie and cheat, have adulterous affairs and even run off to Paris at taxpayers’ expense. But what you cannot do is be ridiculed and humiliated. That happened this week with the snapper affair. It was a disastrous mistake: the last straw for some and the opportunity for others. The pack attacked. And David was devoured.

David Shearer will be remembered as a nice guy; his 20 months as Leader of the Opposition will not be remembered at all. But what I will remember and take from this whole depraved business is that sadly we have further evidence that all too often nice guys do indeed finish last. Or in David Shearer’s case, and in retrospect, they are possibly finished before they start.

Absolutely Positive

I am blessed to have a niece, a goddaughter and several friends who write letters. Not emails, though they do that as well, but snail-mail. It is a delight to receive such letters; there is of course the tactile sensation and also the implicit care, consideration and affection of such a missive. Usually I reply in kind and have bought special stationery fit for purpose. I wrote two letters this morning, both complimenting companies on their service. One is an electrician in Helensville, whom you will probably never meet and never need—unfortunate, because he is the best I have come across. But the other, an auto mechanic and tyre merchant in Silverdale called Cranefield Automotive, is well worth a try if you live in the vicinity. Both provide service well beyond expectation and, in the case of the mechanic, a complimentary bottle of wine! I have had a good run with service lately—Sam’s Butchery, also in Silverdale, is another and his bacon (thanks Rachel) is to die for. The common element with all of them is that they are good people with positive outlooks. That I find refreshing because it is the nature and role of my primary occupation to deal with the exact opposite. I saw both natures exhibited with some intensity on television this week. It was the Campbell versus Key debate over the GCSB. I am not saying Campbell is bad person nor am I saying I support Key in all he does, but on this occasion Campbell came across as churlish and even childish at times, whereas Teflon John came across as positively (literally) ebullient. No wonder he (Key) offered to come back to the show again; he obviously enjoyed himself so much on this occasion, and even Campbell if he puts a positive spin on it will I think welcome that as an opportunity to redeem himself. I look forward to round two. Anyway, try the two companies I mentioned and if you want the name of my electrician I’ll throw that in too—positively.

Going nuts

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The possession of which I most proud is my BMW, christened Priscilla after a role I was playing when I bought her. This week I took her for her six-monthly WOF; she is after all 20 years old. She failed.

It was a small matter, of sorts; a nut was loose in the left-front bearing which, I was told by the inspector, would be catastrophic if it fell off. He urged me to take it to my mechanic immediately as it was “dangerous”. I did so. My mechanic, a dour German, who says little but is very good at his job and has a real affection for Priscilla, took the inspector’s report, shook his head, reached under the left-front wheel and as far as I could tell tightened the nut with his fingers. No tools. And no charge. He told me to take it back to the WOF station and I would get a warrant. I did and I did.

Now, that raises a question: if tightening of a nut (with the fingers) was all it takes and the situation was dangerous and potentially catastrophic why couldn’t the inspector have done it?

Yes, I know there is apparently a protocol in WOF stations that they don’t do repairs—and that is part of their advantage in that they are truly dispassionate and not touting for business—but really? To tighten a nut? Is that a repair? Seems nuts to me.

Strange Days

Strange thing about getting old and residing with the Spectre of Mortality is that every day seems to be briefer and consequently so do the weeks, months and years. Let’s not court fate by talking decades. It’s not as if the days are busier and the mind more occupied; it is just seemingly a fact of life, as if some entity is trying to get you to hurry on. “We need the space.” I am not the first to recognise it; cruise liners capitalise on it. Nor do I use it as an excuse to pine for what might have been and the opportunities missed. Not for me retrospective regrets, nor moribund morbidity. But nor will I succumb to trite sayings such as “today is the first…” etc, still less for the contrived inspirational sayings that are supposed to change your life and are usually presented to a backdrop of a beautiful sunset. I’ll leave Facebook posters to those—they do them so well, and frequently. No, for me it’s just a case of getting on with the rest of my life, living for the day (trite?) and enjoying the people around me—most of them. Life is after all what it is. And I am what I am. Content.