Things I'll never get to see...

One night last week I heard what I thought to be at least a couple of kiwi on my front lawn. By the time I got out of bed to see them my dogs had chased them off. I hope I get another opportunity and if I continue to live in the Far North with its surprisingly healthy population of kiwis then I no doubt will. But upon pondering the perspicacity of my Kiwi I thought of things I doubt I will ever see—not in my lifetime and perhaps not in yours. Here is my list:
1.     A movie sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey. The trailer for the first movie in the excruciating trilogy is bad enough and they want to make two more?
2.     Auckland councillors forgoing their business-class perks or declining invitations to visit some other world’s most liveable cites such as in Nepal and Finland.
3.     Len Brown serving a third term.
4.     A fourth term for John Key.
5.     A David Cunliffe led government.
6.     Any international traction of credibility for Eastern Ukrainian’s self-styled freedom fighters.
7.     Ditto Vladimir Putin.
8.     An end to Treaty settlements.
9.     A world without Mike Hosking—not that we are trying hard.
10. A world without Paul Henry—and we are trying hard.
11. More convenient folding of the otherwise stunning Kleenex Flushable Cleansing Cloths.
12. A funnier programme than QI.
13. An end to the high-rotate run of the once funny Cigna Funeral Cover commercial.
14. An end to the high-rotate run of the once funny Kim Dotcom.
15. An end to the high-rotate run of the never funny John Banks—sorry, we have already seen that.
16. A ministerial resignation between now and the election
17. Anyone still reading Mills and Boon.
18. An admission by Hone Harawira that, in the end, he is just “funning us.”
19. Kiwi sheep placenta anywhere near my face.
20.  Gerry Brownlee hopping over any more fences.

Stranded in Paradise (with apologies to John Dix)

Charles Dickens, novelist, social commentator and lecturer, also owned and edited a weekly publication called All the Year Round. I have three annual anthologies of that periodical, including the seventh volume, which is for the year 1862.
In that volume is a story of special interest to me, given that I now live in the Bay of Islands.
It is apparently a true story, written by a clergyman who in 1859 was swept out to sea in the bay and stranded on one of its islands for seven months.
He was then found by local Maori (Ngapuhi) whom, our clergyman recounts, he initially faced with some trepidation, not knowing whether they were to rescue him or eat him. They did neither, electing rather to leave him on his island prison—their boat being already overloaded with “wives, slaves and children”. They did however promise to send back a larger rescue boat on their return to the mainland. And that duly happened.
The story, whilst interesting, is of no great significance in New Zealand’s history; the country’s maritime antiquity is replete with such strandings and larger and more tragic shipwrecks. But that very anonymity is perhaps where the most intrinsic interest lays—nobody else as far as I know except me, and now you, know of the story of the marooned, lonely and despairing clergyman and “his” island. Yet the account, if true, is so full of direction and description that it may be possible for someone with a greater knowledge of the Bay of Islands than mine to be able to pinpoint and identify the island.
Such identification will add little to the sum store of our communal knowledge. But, who cares? In these days of incessancy rather than interest—Kim Dotcom, Len Brown, budget blowouts, et al—can the location of New Zealand’s very own Robinson Crusoe’s island home be any less interest?
I won’t bore you with those descriptions here, but I am happy to extract and send them to anyone interested, and particularly anyone with the interest and knowledge to identify the island.

Tanks a lot

I woke this morning to some good news. First, that I was indeed safely back in Kerikeri after one of the most gruelling road trips I have ever made. The second, and more serious, was that police, with the public’s help, had identified the four perpetrators of the horrific and cowardly attack on a young shop attendant working in a Pakuranga liquor store. The four, believed to be aged from 14 to 16, are being hunted down now.

Violence is commonplace. But that doesn’t mean to say that it doesn’t have the capacity to horrify us, particularly when carried out to the length and viciousness of this particular attack. Fortunately the victim has, as far as is known, suffered no permanent injuries and has bravely returned to work. Yet it could so easily be different and perhaps the true horror is that these four men/boys, seemed totally oblivious to that fact—they could have killed this man, given the ferocity of the punches, the kicks and the smashing of a bottle over a head. Did they care? From the video, it seems not. Let them rot.

Yet there have been other recorded cases of violence this week. And most of us have taken a different view of those.  There was the case of Brian Lake’s choking of Drew Petrie during an AFL match last Friday. I suggested that most of us who saw it did so with mild amusement, and it has gone viral (over a million views) on You Tube. Then there is the so-called violence of the World Cup. So called because in reality much of it is either extravagated in an attempt to secure a penalty or didn’t exist at all. It is a blight on the game and years of calls to have “Hollywoods” penalised have gone largely unheard. We look upon this affected violence with benign indifference or mild annoyance.

Our approach to big picture violence is different again. We all see the pictures of the carnage in the Middle East. But mercifully we are detached from that. It is happening “over there”, to “them”. And it is not new. Probably deep down and if we were honest it even makes us feel superior.

But overseas events do give us a perspective and we should be thankful for that. Despite the storm now lashing the Far North and the Pakuranga attack—despite all—we live in a great country. A glorious country.  If my greatest worry this morning is the Far North District Council’s storm-suggestion that I should go out in the rain to check my septic tank I have much to be thankful for.