PART THE THIRD
and the final of the series (this, and the previous two posts). So with no introduction required—no need for me to tell you I found this lot when spring-cleaning my hard drive, or make other redundant comments to that effect. So I shan’t … here ’tis—
You know me!
I swam with your Mother, when she was a little girl at Opononi*; and I guided frightened sailors through the Sounds** on many a stormy day.
You know me!
Cleopatra herself threw me olive bread, and I danced across the prows of Octavian’s galleys as they laboured towards distant Actium.
You know me!
I delighted you with my smile through a thousand times a thousand voyages; I watched the Man as he released his dove of hope upon a water world, and I accompanied the lovers as they crept silently to their little island.
Of course you know me!
From the dawn of time to the end; from icy Polaris to the glittering Southern Cross I have journeyed with you … …
… … and, Gods willing, I ever shall.
An old man by the window …
Is coffee his only comfort? No — sudden blast of blue-grey.
Why do smokers get the best seats?
The utter inevitability of the certainties of life; death, taxation, and the spotty-faced obnoxious little infant at the next table in the coffee bar — you know, the one with the chain-smoking mother and short-sighted indulgent auntie.
Crocuses replaced by golden-headed daffodils, nodding in the breeze; tulips budding forth. Springtime, as only Britain can lay it on. Rising flowers reaching ever upwards, pulling down warm sunlight from song-filled skies. Fluffy clouds, white galleons under full sail, ghosting serenely across a warm and vibrant world; perfume of jonquils made headier with the wafting scents of warm undergrowth.
Scottish smokers! The dense fug of pollution drifting seawards from the British Isles to become Norway’s acid rain stems not from industry but from bio-chimneys, from the universal Scottish smoker.
God Himself has no omnipresence to match the Scottish smoker.
When Scottish streets flood it is because the sewers have backed up from cigarette butt blockages.
Darking skies, shreds of clouds reaching down to the rooftops of distant Buckie, and the disturbing feeling that in deciding to walk rather than wait for the next bus I had made a major tactical goof.
Euphoria of walking through the blizzard, well-blown scurries of feathery flakes casting their joys to the wind and slapping us playfully in the face.
My wife the snow-person, eyes twinkling beneath the surround of snow-crusted rabbit fur, icicles hanging from her snoot and twice as lovely as ever.
The sorrow of a soggy snowman, forlornly turning to goop on an unpredicted sunny afternoon.
Our immense snowball, our pride, our joy, our visible result of hours of joint effort in the dull gloom of a northern winter’s evening; crushed and shattered by a mindless individual. At least the twit needed a tractor to do it.
When you absolutely needs must tell somebody, confide in the snowman.
At the sight of my one-megaton snowball even the bravest of kids blanched and looked angelically the other way, whistling.
The forlorn figure of my wife, gazing wistfully at the half-thawed wreckage of yesterday’s snowstorm; melting footsteps in old snow.
Lives in a little House.
Live in little Hice?
Laid back, po-faced people and gentle, golden summers. Pickled lemons for breakfast and mousetrap for lunch; shop assistants in their conversant huddles whilst docile customers wait patiently to be noticed.
ON LOW BLOOD SUGAR IN A SPOUSE (female):
Of the crabby mien
All we need
Is in between
—a doughut …
(of source unknown — possibly even moi?)
“ … a woman whose body has accumulated in step with her years …”
Sitting in the Ginger Crunch coffe shop, Helensville:
Pea-brained input into a finely balanced system. I’m watching a disruptive undisciplined Maori infant enthusiastically demolishing a once very expensive and finely calibrated commercial balance, now used as a floor decoration. A device quite beyond his — and possibly even his parents’ — comprehension. Ignorance toying with the unknown, a metahphor for humanity itself?
1200 11 Oct 2003
If you aren’t getting the respect you feel you deserve, you are in the wrong environment. Due respect is accorded when recognised. A slouching street lout with a real cool cigarette sticking out from under the so cool baseball cap — you know, the type with the peak fashionably stuck on at the back — will hardly accord respect to a heart surgeon or weedy professor of advanced quantum mechanics. And vice versa. If it’s respect you seek, move your flag and your accomplishments to a more appropriate scene.
—and that, as they say, is that. Sure, I’m a cynic. It comes with the years—I, too, was once a burbling optimist.
Now I just burble … sue me~!
* ‘Opo’ the crazy dolphin. Swam with bathers at Opononi some years back—
** ‘Peloros Jack’ — dolphin, guided ships safely through grumpy waters a century ago—