I have the foggiest

I am red with embarrassment.
Having taken the mickey out of Hamilton last Fryday because it was shrouded in fog I now find that Auckland too is susceptible to the same spoliation. This morning has to the foggiest I can recall. I cannot see as far as my front gate and what is beyond I leave to intuition and memory. At least such it is in Helensville; and that is deeply worrying. I would hate to think the fog is confined to Helensville rather than blanketing all of Auckland, because that would mean the town I live in has yet another similarity to Hamilton. It is already going nowhere, deeply depressed and shut on Sundays. Now it too is afraid to show its face.  Helensville has become, I am afraid, like Hamilton—the Peter Dunne of towns.

Slàinte, sonas agus beartas

Oscar Wilde said of the United States and the United Kingdom that they had everything in common except language. He was right of course. In their land of excess, Americans have paradoxically opted for minimalism in language. They have dropped more letters than a disgruntled south Auckland postie on P. And rearranged more letters than a Mt Eden prostitute on a good night. Color=colour, flavor=flavour, meter=metre, etc. Which is why I find it surprising, musing on this over the Christmas break, that in one area dear to me Americans have elected to add a letter, the letter E to whisky. They spell it whiskey, which is the way the Irish spell it and that in itself may be an explanation, given the Irish influence in early America. There are almost as many American whiskies as there are Scotch whiskies (in the plural both countries employ the E) and the distinctions are many. In the interests of robust research I have sampled—and will continue to sample—as many as I can. Scotch is the form and firm favourite for me though. Helensville is the site of the only successful Scotch invasion since Braveheart and will, hopefully, last a lot longer. There is little more enjoyable to me than the big blustery, take-no-prisoner single-malts from Islay (pronounced Eye-Lah) and the favour of friends. With that in mind and glass in hand I raised a few drams to you this happy Hogmanay. Allow me to do so again with a Scottish greeting I like, plus, appropriately, a translation for all my Fryday friends: May the best ye hae ivver seen be the warst ye'll ivver see. May the moose ne'er lea' yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee. May ye aye keep hail an hertie till ye'r auld eneuch tae dee. May ye aye juist be sae happie as A wuss ye aye tae be. The above, in translation, reads: May the best you have ever seen be the worst you will ever see. May the mouse never leave your grain store with a tear drop in its eye. May you always stay hale and hearty until you are old enough to die. May you still be as happy as I always wish you to be. Slàinte, sonas agus beartas (Health, wealth and happiness) Fyday.

Bin there, done that

Are you sick of Hone yet? I am and I see no benefit in inflicting upon you another Fryday on him. Nor on Hone’s hero the great “freedom fighter” Osama Bin Laden. So we move on to someone of equal intelligence to them: the Helensville Lizard. Now, I am not freaked out by lizards or indeed any other so-called creepy-crawlies. Admittedly I don’t drool over them but I do admit a sneaking affections for the multitude of lizards that share my property in Helensville. One, and I can only assume it is the same one because all lizards (and Harawiras) look alike to me, even visits me regularly in my office. Imagine therefore my chagrin when yesterday, while doing a job for my charming wife (who looks nothing like a lizard), I inadvertently sucked one up in my Leaf vac. I saw it go and was momentarily conflicted as to whether I continue my task or set it aside to try and rescue the lil’ critter. I decided on the latter. I am delighted to state that I succeeded. My friend the lizard was recovered from the vacuum bag unhurt, and somewhat ungratefully I thought scuttled off into the protective foliage. But was it ungrateful? I have just seen a lizard come to my door and deposit a dead fly. A gift of gratitude perhaps? Unusual I would say from something that crawled out from under a rock. Perhaps I should ask Hone—he’d know.

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The Rat Pack

Opposite where I live is a cemetery. Its residents are for the most part quiet. They keep to themselves and don’t trouble me. Or my dogs. Nor do I trouble them. I do not venture over there at night to wake them. I do not invoke or insult them. And there is no intent on my part to instigate Satanist ceremonies and orgies. Indeed I doubt that Helensville harbours orgies of any sort anywhere. In fact, Helensville’s principal appeal may be that its cemetery is the liveliest place in town. It’s a quiet town. Quiet as the grave. Yet we learn today that we have reason to flee—a flea. It appears that the local rats of the rodent kind are carrying typhus carrying fleas. This does not come as welcome news, nor is there consolation in the hospital board’s less than comforting claim that “less than 2% of those who contract typhoid die from it.” We have all been instructed to be on the alert for rats and do all we can to eradicate them from the town. I will participate in that campaign with enthusiasm and vigour. I don’t like rats anyway. Nor fleas. But I do like life. I honour it and my life with my wife. And dogs. I have no intent to be among the 2% and join the folks across the road—nice as they are.

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Body of Work

Death has dogged me this New Year. Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, I was enthralled, if a little taken aback, by a radio series titled 14 Entertainers Who Died in Plane Crashes. The programme informs me that there are more than 14 but these in ranking order are the most affecting. I imagine for the deceased they were all affected in much the same way—Death has a certain commonality about it—and some will be mortified (!) that they didn’t make the Top 14 cut, particularly as 3 of the 14: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were all on the same plane. One would have thought that a more equitable dishing out would have been…well…more equitable. My other brush with death came today when I visited the cemetery across the road. It is an ancient and gracious cemetery. One hears nothing from the occupants of course, but their inscribed tombstones speak volumes. For anyone for whom this would be practical, I suggest a visit to the Helensville Cemetery. I would however proffer one caution—it truly is one of those nice places to visit but one wouldn’t want to live there places. But you may well be drawn to ask why on a beautiful New Year’s Day I am visiting a cemetery. In truth, I cannot answer that, but I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be a particularly perverse year for your Fryday scribe.

Shut the Closet

Salivating at the prospect of Christmas and the attendant break, are you? I am. It has been a harsh year for many, me included, what with the economy, employment uncertainty and the return of the Backstreet Boys. In addition I have this year played a tutu-wearing fairy, a gay hairdresser and, most recently, a character whose propensity is to get into another man’s trousers. I have also with my wife bought a new house, which is good in most respects but does add to my already over-burdened vocabulary the phrase “household chores” and commits me to a life in servitude to the National Bank. I have written little of significance in 2009 and with the departure of George W. Bush and Helen Clark, Fryday has struggled. Thank God for Brian Tamaki, though God has little to do with Tamaki. On the positive side I have bought that house, my resilient wife still tolerates me, Lagavuhlin still distils and imminent puppies insist. Life after all is good and destined to get better.

Alarm bra

Yesterday for the first time I activated the alarm system we inherited with our new home. It was less than five hours before it sent its first false-alarm to the monitoring service and ejaculated a screaming orgasm of a siren that I am told many of our neighbours thought heralded either a tsunami alert or the imminent arrival of a tardy Japanese invasion force.
It also drew forth the local constabulary who took the time and trouble to ring me at work to say my alarm was going. As I am unaware that I am “known to police” as police parlance puts it, this was an agreeable surprise.
But I was left to question why I am known. I would not have thought that even in a community as small as the one I now live in I was of such standing in that community. Both my speeding tickets have been paid, so it cannot be that. The sign out front proclaims and promotes the builder of the house, rather than a tinnie house. The light to the side of the house is blue rather than red testifying to the virtue rather than the vice of my lovely wife. Yes, I know I have not yet made my promised Westpac Rescue Helicopter donation, but it is a little early to call the police in on that. Yet I am known to police. Am I perhaps erroneously on one of those secret lists of “people of interest” they circulate through their stations? You know the ones: known car thief, hangs out (literally) at public toilets, steals bras, criticises Council. I am none of these of course. But now I am paranoid—what do the police have on me?
Or am I just being alarmist?


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