Arrrrghhhhhh!

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Since I came to New Zealand a couple of months ago, I’ve not been exactly active. Well, the weather has mostly been ‘either too hot or too cold’ and, anyway, I’ve been delightedly working on my VICTORIAN VOCALISTS. 804 articles up to today, 8 December 2015. A huge amount of text.

Today, however, has shaken me from my 19th-century torpor. Up at 6am. Check out the e-mail, the face-book (there’s always a political post, USA, Britain or, today, France ... needing to be blocked), the European sports results, the opera reports, the wretched weather …

And then, action! First date, Brett, our beloved acupuncturist. Wendy and I swear by him (he recovered me so well from my stroke) but I was not happy with him last time. He told me to cut down on the wine! Well, I did, for 5 days. But I snuck back. Today he stuck a lot of needles in my face. For the hay fever. Which he tells me is caused by my alcohol intake. Whhaaaaaat! But I’ve had it since age thirteen! Something don’t tally!

Shopping. Visit to the bank to pay a risible bill from the risible Earthquake folk. Bloody rip-off, them. You pay in for 80 years (and they giggle, ‘money for nothing’) and suddenly, wham! They’ve got to pay out. Big time. So they do it on the cheap. 90 percent of our ‘repairs’ have un-repaired already. And four years on they send you a bill. Cheats! I’m seriously sorry for people to whom $400 represents a large amount. I’ve got a growing conviction that insurance of all kinds is a huge rip-off. They can afford to sponsor sports events, but refuse to pay for my storm damage.

Next, new keyboard for my computer (Yoobee of Christchurch have taken four years to go back on their promise to replace it).

Then, hasten to the council offices to grab a fire permit. A week ago, just when our Nigel had high-piled the tree-debris from our yards, they declared a total fire ban.  When that happens, it often lasts for months. But we know how to make it rain. Make hay. We’re way, way early. But, with the drought, the few scraggly paddocks of what can be up to 45 big bales of hay, in a good year, were starting to shrivel and die. So our lovely Neil came round and mowed ... and sure enough a few hours later: it rained. Not a lot. Just enough to be a bloody pest without doing any good. But…! The Council called off the fire ban! (I found out, later, it had poured everywhere but on us). So up town for my permit, home to wait for Nigel. Wait. Wait. This has all got to be burned by nightfall! So, while Wendy went to get the water cart (for emergencies), I started …

PHABOOM! The dry-as-Gordon’s-gin branches went up like a mushroom cloud. A magnificent hell-hot fire. But madre de dios! It’s catching the dry grass of the paddock. And I can’t get close enough to stamp on it with my Nanu-Nana espadrilles! I howled for Wendy (1/2km away!) and went into wobbly action.  Slashing, stomping … dripping and fainting from the furnace of flames … for the first time, thankful that the paddock was as thin as my headhair …  By the time Wendy arrived with the water supply, I was singed, scarlet with flames, 30deg sun and effort ... but it was under control. Next time: water cart in place before we start. But whew! It's done ...

Nigel got into action at 3pm. His pile was bigger than mine. I’m leaving him to it …

Back to the house and ... another discovery! We’ve King-Herodded fifty peacock eggs this year  (it’s called prophylactic culling) .. but one hen was too wily…

Well, at least it’s only two!

It’s tomorrow. Oh Hades! I can’t move. My hips are hell, I feel ill, hot and cold flushes , can’t get out of bed … I’ve had this before, in the tropics … a coup de soleil, and, worse, sunstrokelet with fire scorches. My legs and arms are scarlet, my bald pate hurts, the skin on my arms has cracked and bled …

Wendy’s off to the trials with tiny Rocky. I’m staying in bed…

I’m supposed to be this ‘elderly, retired, handicapped gentleman’. In a few weeks I’ll be officially 70. I’m a writer … not a farmer’s boy … arrrrgggggggh!

10 December. The fires are still burning and smouldering … Wendy and Nigel had to get up at midnight to check them ... the hay-baling has been put back to tomorrow (we’ll be lucky to get ten) … Rocky ran really well, wee darling … Montmorensy and Thomas go Saturday ... but I won’t be there. I’m going to have a quiet day with a Victorian Vocalist. Please …  

 Ach! it's hay-baling tomorrow!