Yes. I know we’ve been here before, but
I CAN’T HELP MYSELF
Here’s a few few wrapper-uppers on the theme, make of them what thou wilt or shalt—
AND A SOCIAL OBSERVATION
which could serve in the office of a word to the wise. In Kiwiland we don’t go great bundles on flags and other cultural gee-gaws; the flag is mainly important only to the brainwashed and/or easily led.
But sometimes you may happen across one on a non-government building (thus labelling the incumbent) and I found such a one in Windsor. Needing a flag snap I snapped it. Actually, I snapped it about twenty times and whilst learning a lot about my camera with it’s inherent delays I got to revisit a lot of old navy words. Twenty boiled down to the one I kept, this beast—
AND AS SERENDIPITY WOULD HAVE IT
in Invercargill an hour or so later I strolled past a building and thought “Aha~!” … and snapped the flag flying on its very own well-used flag pole. If you look carefully you’ll get the point—
—and this is how we mostly treat flags in New Zealand. This, Sir or Madame, is how flags should be damned well treated. As for the date beneath the pole, it might be relevant. We are coming up this year to an important anniversary in the history of flag-waver affairs; one that will evoke a great deal of genuine anguish on the part of some and much relish on the part of those who would milk the imagery flags and such anniversaries evoke.
AND IN THIS LAST
as I was bimbling home from my walk this afternoon I noticed a bag of golfing clubs lying abandoned on the stoop of a home. Hastily abandoned. In fact from the body language of said clubs one might even say wrathfully abandoned. Be that as it may, when I elevated mine gaze to the heights I saw reposing on the roof two more clubs, one of which appeared to have been recently modified—pressure applied with rapturous abandonment, possibly; knees make excellent fulcrums in emergencies. I spent the rest of my walk in philosophical mood, contemplating all possibilities of the word ‘abandoned’.
I found myself wondering if there was a story there—remembering from my days as a wee lad caddying for my Old Man who had a short fuse and some pretty interesting clubs*.
But even he never made the roof …
* Once he’d straightened them back out a bit. Never quite the same again …