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!
