I had forgotten until I received an email this morning, that last year, or perhaps the year earlier, I'd subscribed to the "Guiness World Records" letter.
This is their first newsletter for 2003, presumably because of a world-wide recession in record breaking achievements due to the war in Iraq, SARS, and Arnie Schwarzenegger ( he should have changed his name to "Smith").
The first record repoted in the newsletter concerned Augie. (Woof!)
I hope Kiwi fans are not disappointed to find that I wasn't referring to Weather Pundit. (Oh my goodness golly gee, there's that word again.)
NooZild has been a welfare state since 1935. A heap of dosh has been thrown at single mums nurturing unwed pregnant daughters and terminally unemployed sons who are also recpients of hard earned (by a few others) tax-payer dollars. The pundits (lovely word pundits, it's from Sanscrit through Hindustani, y'know) are now saying these welfare policies (and there are now three and four generations of welfare recipients in some families) have bred sloth, excessive expectations, and addiction to the pokies. But there are exceptions to this sweeping generalisation - in this case not only by the daughter but perhaps more particularly by the mother, who set the standard for her children.
It's been hot in Britain. (Love the hat!). "Nude sunbathers sprayed with weedkiller". Was the Council trying to get rid of the less pulchritudinous? ( Sorry, that's the best I can do. "Ya shoun't have bothered!", I hear you say? Ah well, perhaps you're right.)
To some Kiwis, it may conjure up visions of a quadraped, equus onager, co-owned by a bunch of wrinklies. To a citizen of the U.S., probably something more fundamental.
The "Comments" link is working, but not counting. Please use it if you wish, unless you are a card-carrying member of an animal welfare group, or an inspector from the Society for the Prevention of Bad Jokes. I promise I will now check there, daily. (My thanks to Francis for drawing my attention to its malfunctioning.)
A medical doctor who was also a churchman has died in retirement in Auckland, after a life of doing good works in Fiji. He took a great interest in his garden and the last line of his memoirs states; -
"Nothing can shake my belief in two important things, namely compost and the Anglican Church, not necessarily in that order."
I wonder if the appointment of an admitted homosexual as Bishop of New Hampshire, U.S.A., will lead to the formation of a separate "Liberal" Anglican/Episcopalian Church worldwide.
What ramifications would that have for the reigning monarch (and her heir, the apparently liberal Prince Charles) as head of (British) Church of England?
I had constructed a more ambitious layout to honour the passing of an icon of the "g" generation ( "g" = "geriatric" of course). But despite my text editor displaying it without dissent, Blogger wouldn't have a bar of it. After much trial and a lot of error, checking for faulty tags etc, and with saddened heart, I gave up. As Robbie Burns sang after a dram or six of usquebaugh: "The best laid plans o' mice and men will to custard turn. Pass the bottle, mon!"... or words of like effect.
During WWll, when I was but a mere stripling, the Americans took over an Auckland radio station and cranked up its power for the Armed Forces' Radio Service. If the weather was favourable and the wind in the right direction, its signal could be heard in the hick town in which I then lived. My parents weren't interested in radio - my father preferred a book and my mother, as mothers did, stuck to her knitting. I would be allowed to take the radio to my bedroom and instead of learning Latin declensions, I'd have my head pressed to the speaker the better to hear the gags of Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Jerry Colonna; the very funny guy who's name I've forgotten for the moment, the one who played the violin very badly and who was Hope's (on air) bête noire ; George Burns & Gracie Allen, etc. Music-wise it was the Dorsey Brothers and a handsome young up'n-comer named Frank Sinatra; Artie Shaw, Glen Miller and his band(s), Gene Krupa and his drumming, Benny Goodman with his clarinet and his band, Harry James and his trumpet. Ziggy Elman and (Harry James?) doing a trumpet duel (sic) during the closing bars of 'Well, git it!' was so electrifying that every time I heard it I felt as if I was going to wet my pants.
OK, so this reads like a laundry list, but humour me me - I'm taking a hobble down memory lane, 60 years later. Vale, idols of my adolescence. You brought the world into my young and closeted life.
Some rellies, of the younger generation, called to see us on their way to the South Island after a Tropical Vacation (my, how they've aged since their wedding day, 30 years ago!). I sat between the two groups - males on one side talking men's talk, females on the other, boasting about their offspring (and offsprings' offspring.) I endeavoured from time to time to contribute to both conversations, hoping that I'd heard aright and wasn't saying something completely irrelevant to the topic. It does happen, y'know.
On Sunday I drove across town to visit Old School Buddy and his partner. OSB has had another small stroke and now sees two of everything We sat and drank tea and ate chocolate biscuits while comparing notes on Memorable Hospital Visits. I was awarded the trophy for my rendition of the Gastroscopical Saga. When I next visit them, it will be OSB's turn on the winner's podium. He had an MRI scan yesterday followed by consultations with not one, but two Speciatists - consecutively. Oh, the marvels of modern medicine.
OSB and his partner live out east while I live out west. My drive home in the late afternoon was into the low winter sun - not a pleasant journey, what with my rheumy eyes'n all.
The nation is in shock - the long heralded blockbuster and drama-packed episode of Coronation St was split asunder and a half-hour episode of a DIY programme inserted - to ease the viewing audience's tension it is claimed, in-depth research having shown that the attention span of television audiences does not exceed 32 minutes (plus ad-breaks) - on a clear day, and with a following wind
I care neither a whit nor a jot. I lost interest in the thing when Ena Sharples was written out. (Television) life then lost all meaning ... until Ruth Fisher came along.
A lovely read from Gordie in this morning's "Herald". He's right, the answer's bloody "two", as the "6 divided by 2" is not within brackets, as we were taught in the first half of last century! (This from a mathematical dunderhead who scraped through his University Entrance Exam in maths by the skin of his multplicand.)
If this is the way they teach maths these days, I can agree with G.McL. ... accuracy of expression has plumbed new depths of woolly-headedness.
And that's my six penn'orth this cold but calm and sunny Saturday morning after a night of thunder, lightning and torrential downpours. Now the weatherwoman says we're to get a very cold blast which is trundling up from the south.
