Dongo and the Giant Bottom

Hello everyone –

After a considerable absence I have returned!  Briefly.  With a children’s story.  I can only imagine how excited you all are.

Yesterday Andrea sent me a list of rude-sounding places around the world, and said we should one day visit Dongo (DR Congo) and The Bottom (Caribbean Netherlands). I said ‘Dongo and The Bottom’ sounded like a children’s story about a small boy who befriends a giant bottom and thus learns the meaning of true friendship, and now we have this.

It’s quite odd but I like it and hope you like it too.

Dongo and The Bottom
A story for children and also adults

It was a dark and stormy night, and Dongo was meant to be fast asleep in bed.

Dongo couldn’t sleep.
His brain was full of tired & unhappy thoughts.
He kept remembering sad moments and reliving all of his mistakes.

The rain beating on the window would not beat the thoughts away.
The thunder roaring in the sky would not shock the thoughts away.
The wind howling in the trees would not scare the thoughts away.

Dongo closed his eyes and wished hard to think about something else.

And when he opened his eyes the bed was gone
And the room was gone
And the rain was gone
And the thoughts were gone
And Dongo looked around and wondered where he had ended up.

And he saw:

Above his head, trees strung with blue spiderwebs
Below his feet, grass and flowers
To the right of him, a Giant Bottom

A Giant Bottom?

A Giant Bottom!

The Giant Bottom was large and pink and shockingly nude.
Dongo looked down at the grass, and then up at the trees, but eventually he could not avoid looking at the Giant Bottom

It was just too Giant.

And as Dongo looked at the Bottom, he felt the Bottom looked at him.

“Hello,” said Dongo.

The Bottom wobbled slightly and then it spoke,
and its voice was the voice of a thousand farts
and it said:

“Hello, Dongo.”

!!!

This was unexpected.

“Hello Giant Bottom” said Dongo.  “How did you know my name?”
“You are wearing a name tag,” said the Giant Bottom.
Dongo looked down at his chest and he was.

It said:
DONGO
FRIEND OF THE GIANT BOTTOM

“Friend of the Giant Bottom?” asked Dongo.
“Yes,” the Bottom said.  “Everyone is a friend of the Giant Bottom, but some are better friends than others, and some are the very best friends of all.”
“Oh,” said Dongo.
Dongo was unused to having friends (especially ones that were Giant Bottoms) -
and as he remembered this the rainy thoughts came back,
and once again his head was filled with sadness,
and he sat down on the grass and cried.

The Giant Bottom was taken aback at this reaction to its friendship.

“Dongo, what has happened?”

Dongo hid his face in the grass and told the Bottom that he was not a very good friend,
and that in fact he was not even a very good person.

“I have been mean because I wanted to be mean,
I have told a lie when I should have told the truth,
I have told the truth when I should have told a lie,

I have taken things which did not belong to me,

I have hated things which were given to me with love -
So you see, I am not so good to be around.”

The Bottom sighed a tired sigh

“Dongo,” it said,
“These are just mistakes.

Everybody makes them.”

“Can you make them go away?” Dongo asked, hopefully.

“No,” said the Giant Bottom.
“I am a Giant Bottom, not a wizard.
But listen carefully…”

The Bottom told Dongo that the important and best thing about friends
Is that when you make mistakes, they still love you
They still know that you are a good person,
Even if you are a good person who has done a bad thing,
Even if you are a good person who has made a mistake.

“But Giant Bottom,” Dongo said,
“How do you know I’m a good person?
We have only just met.”

The Bottom laughed and said:
“Dongo, I am not just one Giant Bottom, I am all bottoms.
“When Bango mooned you on the bus, I was there.
When the elderly man got changed at the pool, I was there too.
And when you visited the baboons at the zoo, I was also there.

So you see, I know you better than you think.”

As Dongo listened to the Giant Bottom, he realised it was right.
What he had done yesterday was not as important as what he might do tomorrow.

And while yesterday's mistakes couldn't be undone, Dongo could learn not to make the same mistakes tomorrow.

And Dongo felt hopeful.

The Bottom had been watching Dongo carefully and it said:
“Dongo, are you ready to go home now?”

“Yes, Giant Bottom.”

And Dongo closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was back in his room -

but the rain was a comforting tattoo
and the wind was a familiar voice
and the thunder was the giant fart of a friend.

The End

Lapi* is in a stable condition

*I know it's a really unimaginative name - I am not so good at naming inanimate objects. Andrea is. She called her toaster 'Poppy,' which is freakin' awesome


Just got back from 10 hours of stocktake! I think supermarkets play a lot of Coldplay so that people get depressed and want to buy stuff to cheer themselves up.

Here's a story about how I sassed an old man.

OK so quite often when we're stocktaking, shoppers assume that because we're standing about with little scanners we work at the supermarket. Fair enough.

So today an elderly gentleman with a large nose and rheumy eyes toddled over to me and declared in a cantankerous wheeze that there weren't any Ready Salted ETA potato chips. "Pardon?" I said, because I wasn't quite sure I'd heard him (or in fact that he was talking to me). "I said" replied the elderly gentleman, revealing that he had been a crusty old man all along, "there AREN'T ANY READY SALTED ETA POTATO CHIPS!"

"That's interesting." Pause. "I don't work here."

FUCK YOU, OLD DUDE.

Also, a small child (overheard: "Mummy, Mummy!" "Eww, cover your mouth when you cough." "No!") ran around my feet as I scanned things, then asked his mother what "that man" was doing. To be fair, I was wearing a beanie & no makeup, & the child was little. This put me in mind of other times I've been mistaken for a young man, usually when out caroling in my mannish band uniform, with short hair & hat on. ("Go on, dear, give the money to him...oh, to her...to...oooh.")

It also reminded me of the time I got in a fight over a girl. Want to hear the story? Yeah you totally do.

So I was at this party in Paraparaumu (pronounced 'pram') which is, for those who don't know it, a little seaside town about an hour out of Wellington. It was a birthday party, and it ended up lasting for 36 hours; I think I arrived about 8pm Friday and went home at 12pm Sunday (on the train, it was traumatic) and the party was in full swing when I arrived, and really only stopped about 7am Sunday morning. (Actually, the full story of the party would make a ripping yarn, in the style of TLDOML. If you guys are keen for another one of those four-part stories let me know & I'll do it when my laptop's better.)

I didn't know anyone except the host, so I wandered about joining in random conversations and meeting people and making friends and generally enjoying myself. One of the people I met was a girl called Bree. We got along well & ended up sitting outside on some steps having an intense, emotional and very pissed conversation about something which I no longer remember but which meant a lot to both of us at the time, and then a very drunk guy lurched outside, lit up a cigarette, and sat down next to Bree in a very purposeful fashion. To be fair, she had been dancing with him earlier in a fairly shall we say sensual way, but then it was that kind of a party.

Then the drunk guy, who I should probably mention was a huge douche, put his hand on Bree's leg, and 'suggested' that I leave the two of them alone. Bree was pretty drunk, and I didn't want to just toddle off & leave her (the party was in the country, and there were many convenient spots to pop off to for a quick shag, or so I was told) so I said asked her if she wanted me to go. "No," she said, "don't go." The guy glared at me and told me that Bree was fine, and that I really should go. Threatening glare and all. Then Bree made the surprise announcement that actually she wanted to make out with me and not the drunk guy, and launched herself at my face.

The drunk guy reacted to this plot twist with a mixture of disbelief & arousal, and made some noise which was more or less "hurr hurr fnarr fnarr wait til I tell the guys about this threesome I am about to have" then a bit of that noise people make when they're pretending to be French. Alas, he did not realise that he was the only person in the conversation who wasn't thinking "what a douche." I was about to politely ask him to leave when I accidentally smirked and told him to fuck off. Bree echoed this sentiment and added an inappropriate hand gesture, which really helped.

So the drunk guy accused me of cockblocking him. I told him it wasn't my fault that I was hotter than he was.

He punched me in the face! There was a brawl! I had a black eye for the Monday Morning Team Meeting! What a badass.

Good story eh. And that was only one of the 36 hours.


I might have to start a "Next, on Today Is My Birthday*" segment.

Next, on TIMB* - The Longest Party Ever, Part One (and/or This One Time, at Band Camp...Part One, in which I take you from behind on a magical journey through the world of brass banding by recounting my experiences*). Stay tuned. Do not adjust your dial.**


Also, I'm thinking of renaming my blog, but I don't know what to. I had a slogan and everything, but I forgot it. (zach - can you remember what this was? it was maybe in the same conversation as 'sort of but not quite' for sleep500. andrea - I probably told you in a fit of excitement? Or maybe I thought of it when I was talking to you, not zach? man I gotta write shit down, and also not hold private conversations in blog posts.)

Actually now that I've realised the acronym is TIMB* I'm not going to change it at all, I'm just going to start referring to my blog as TIMB*aLand and shout TIMB*er! every time I post.


*the funny ones

**probably just one of those phrases would've been sufficient

Story Time

While I concentrate on de-funking, here are some random stories from my childhood.

Like the best stories, they all have a little moral at the end.


1. Bee Up Nose Incident

Until I was about 13 my family lived in a little valley about 20 minutes drive out of Blenheim. We had a big country property with two paddocks divided by a 6-metre scrubby sort of bush-covered cliff. The bottom paddock had a river running through it, and the top paddock had our house, garden, orchard, chickens etc. It also, from time to time, had little colonies of bees and wasps, and it was into one of these that I was trying to convince my cousin to poke a stick. She said no, but luckily I was determined and poked the hive myself. Why? I don't know why. I knew what happens when you poke a hive (bees fly out and attack you) but for some reason this didn't change my mind. I think it's most likely that I either thought this was an urban myth (or perhaps a rural myth?), or that I was smarter than bees. Maybe both. Anyway, I poked the hive, out came the bees, and my cousin and I ran away. I took one of the bees with me. In my nose.

We ran back to the house, where my cousin explained in fascinated horror that I had somehow snorted a bee into my nostril. Dad put his thumb over the other nostril and said "Blow!" and I blew and out came the bee! It was dead. Which is lucky, really, otherwise it would probably have needed therapy forever.

Thee bee had the last laugh though, because before its nasal ascent it had stung me on the face. I spent the next few days off school, with one half of my face completely normal and the other half swollen to Michelin-man proportions. I refused to let anyone take a photo of this, which is kind of a shame when you think about it.

Moral: do not poke sticks into beehives; you are not cleverer than bees.


2. Death of Gerry

This story takes place on what was to be - for reasons which will become obvious - our last holiday as a family. I would've been about 11 or 12, and my younger sister Kate about 9. We had been fighting like cat & dog for the entire holiday and Mum & Dad were completely sick of us. As a means of getting Kate & I to stop shouting at each other during car trips, Dad had implemented a system where he gave Kate and I a little notebook (carefully constructed from stapled-together bits of copy paper) and a pen. Not one each, which would have made a lot more sense, but one notebook between us. The notebook was officially called the Complaints Book, and the theory was that whenever a grievance arose the injured party would write it down in the notebook instead of having a shout about it, and then either Mum or Dad would arbitrate later. Neither of them ever showed the slightest interest in reading it, which I guess is fair enough.

Here is what happened when Gerry the Heinous Driftwood Giraffe met the Complaints Book.

The first few pages of the Complaints Book were filled with fairly standard stuff ("Ally won't keep on her side of the car," "Kate pinched me," "Ally won't give me the GameBoy.") Have just mentioned this to Kate, who is playing fact-checker. She claims that I kept ripping out her complaints and throwing them out the window, but I totally don't remember this happening. She also says that I kept hiding the Complaints Book from her but I'm pretty sure that didn't happen either and that she has a false memory, poor duck.

Anyway, eventually Kate got bored with her usual methods of irritation and brought out Gerry the Giraffe.

Gerry was a thoroughly malicious piece of faintly giraffe-shaped driftwood that Kate had found on a beach and felt some sort of weird kinship with. She had picked him up - he was only small, just the right size to poke in someone's ear - and had been carrying him about since. Gerry the Giraffe had a notably short attention span and was a real pain in the arse when he was bored. As you read further through, the notebook starts to feature more and more entries of "Gerry poked me in the arm" and "Gerry hit me," alternated with "Ally hit Gerry" and "Gerry was just being friendly."

Eventually, in a burst of temper brought on by a stretch of particularly insistent 'friendly overtures' from the savage Gerry, I snatched him from his mistress' loving arms and chucked him out the window. Kate instantly demanded that we stop the car but our parents refused (what savages! poor Gerry!) and carried on. Then Kate wouldn't give me the notebook, or maybe I would't give it to her, then we stopped somewhere and I pushed her out of the car and we all shouted a lot and it was all Gerry's fault.

Moral: Is difficult to choose between 'just let the children shout' and 'don't hit people with your stupid wooden giraffe who doesn't even really look like a giraffe anyway,' but I think the second one applies to more situations in life.


3. Join My Cult?

When I was small I was very charming and, perhaps because of this, believed whole-heartedly that I didn't have to do anything I didn't feel like doing at that very second. (Obviously, I have changed considerably over the years.) When I was about 8 or 9 I had a teacher called Mrs Broadbridge, who was determined to whip my arrogant little self into shape and in the process teach me a much-needed life lesson about smart people having to face the consequences of their actions just as much as everybody else. (Still haven't really got it.)

Anyway, Mrs B gave me 20 lines for doing or not doing something - I think it was 'I must do my homework' - and told me to bring them in the next day. I thought it was a stupid punishment and didn't do them. So the next day she upped it to 40 lines. Which I did not do. So the next day she upped them to 60, and so it went until eventually I owed her about 120 lines and she gave me some kind of ultimatum. Don't remember what it was, but it was serious enough that the time had come to do the lines.

I came home from school the next day and told Mum that I had given Mrs Broadbridge the owed lines. "Really," she said with some surprise, "you did them?" (She knew me well.) "No!" I said cheerfully. It turned out that somehow I had persuaded every kid at the bus stop (rural area school) to do 20 lines for me while we were waiting for the bus to come, and I had avoided writing so much as a single 'I must do my homework.'

Mrs B must've seen all the different types of handwriting, but she never mentioned it.

Moral: lines are a stupid punishment.


4. Artistic Injustice

When I was in Standard 1 or thereabouts (age 7/8), every kid in the class was given a circle of paper and told to draw a self-portrait. When we'd done that, the self-portraits would be pinned to a noticeboard facing the door of the classroom, so that anyone coming in would be greeted by the smiling, if somewhat out-of-proportion, faces of Mrs Ryan's class. (I liked Mrs Ryan, who had a mustache and looked not unlike Susan Boyle.) The bits of paper were about the size shown below.

I wasn't actually the colour of a tomato; apparently there are only so many flesh-coloured felt-tip pens per classroom and I was not feeling overly patient that day. I must've been grumpy as well - in the original portrait, which Mum still has somewhere, I'm scowling something fierce.

Apparently faintly Satanic self-portraits are not allowed to be pinned up on the wall with all of the boring normal-coloured ones! I was asked to do another one in a sensible colour.

Moral: no-one ever appreciates Art.


5. Phuck

When I was in Standard 1 or 2 (about age 7/8), an Incident took place on lunchtime. When my class came charging back inside after lunch, we noticed that there was a word on the classroom door which had not been there before lunch. It was stenciled in big green capitals on a piece of pink construction paper, the edge of which had been clipped with crimping scissors, and it looked like this:"Presentation: 10/10. Content: 0/10"

Despite the fact that obviously a lot of time & effort had gone into it, the offending word was taken down and the culprit eventually found. His name was Willie and he was one of those slug-boys who constantly have a runny nose and look to be on the verge of tears, but apparently this is no excuse for writing the effer on the classroom door. I wonder if he grew up to be an artist? Such attention to detail!

(My mother told me years later that although she never thought it was me, she was 100% certain when I came home and declared excitedly that "a boy had written a naughty word on the classroom door, and he spelt it wrong!" I had been under the impression that the F word was in fact the PH word.)

Moral: no-one ever appreciates Art.

Kate's Birthday!

Today is my younger sister's birthday! Happy Birthday, Kate.

We went to the petting zoo to celebrate. Petting zoo? Hmm. It bills itself as a Wildlife Reserve but most of the animals are just wandering about waiting to be fed.

Animals I Petted Today, in order of petting

- Eel - not really a very pettable animal. Feels sort of like a sea cucumber, albeit one that might bite you at any moment. Also, they have freaky bright blue eyes! You could make a kickass horror movie about eels. Someone probably has.

Here are two little stories about eels. Once, when I was very small (well, smallish, maybe about 5-7) I was swimming in a river on our (country) property, and I was bitten by an eel! (Because I stood on its head.)

I don't know if you know this, but eels are like sharks in that not only are they vicious bastards, their teeth point inwards, so once they've bitten you it's really painful to get yourself unbitten again. See?


this is totally what happened.

The next day, all of the women who lived up the valley went eel hunting in the same spot of the river. We caught two and smoked them and that, my friends, is the law of the jungle.

Second eel story (also with picture:)

When my two uncles were relatively small (8-10?) they went eel fishing with Nana and Granddad. An eel was duly caught, and they decided to take a photograph of my Uncle Graeme (possibly Graham), who had caught it. Before they took the photo, they chopped off the head of the eel (why?) and due to some post-mortem eel reaction this is what happened:

proper spelling of 'uncle' too long

Of course everyone else in the hunting party thought this was freakin' hilarious and didn't help poor Uncle for ages. Also I think there is probably a photo somewhere of him being eeled.

Anyway, onto another animal! This is fun, isn't it.

- Deer - they were pretty cute! Looked just like deer are meant to look. They were shy at first, but eventually I lulled them into a feeling of security with such phrases as 'there there, deer' and 'oh, deer.' Then, when the deer were finally close enough to feed out of your hand, these motherfucking ducks that were everywhere came up shouting quacking and waving their wings about and spooked the deer!

- Duck - I 'petted' it with my foot after the deer incident. Enough about ducks. I patted a goose too at some point but meh. I also threw some food to a swan, but I miscalculated and the food disappeared inside the swan's feathers. Whoops.

- Wallaby - oh man these are so freakin' cute. I'm not really one for the cute animals but it looked like this -


- and it ate out of my hand. OUT OF MY HAND. Granted, I had to crouch down in the dirt for bloody ages so it got used to me and could be tempted close enough, and then when I stood up I realised that the entire time my other hand had been resting in a big pile of wallaby shit but it was totally worth it.

- Large Pigs (regular/kunekune) - I quite like pigs. I like their unashamed sense of entitlement, for a start. Most of the animals were pretty coy about wanting food, all butting their heads against your hand and looking cute, but the pigs got straight down to business; the second you walked up to their fence you were confronted with a wide-open pig mouth (do not run a Google Image search for this). They throw their heads back and expose these huge yellow teeth and miles of pink gullet, into which you throw the food. Then they grunt and chew for a bit, while you scratch behind their ears (apparently pigs are into this). Then they open their mouth again. Ah, pigs.

Also: the kunekune pigs (which as far as I can tell are pretty much the same as regular pigs), like many (if not all) of the Willowbank animals, live in a little shelter. The difference is that while all of the other animal shelters look like normal animal shelters i.e. primitive wooden huts, the Kunekune dwell in a replica of a traditional Maori dwelling. The Maori, of course, being the indigenous people of NZ. Does this seem a little inappropriate to anyone else? Took an awesome photo of huge pig coming out of Maori meeting house, but is not developed yet.

- Kea - Apparently New Zealand's smartest bird. In fact, apparently the smartest bird in the world! Bit my finger. Did not seem very smart.

- Donkeys - Not very interesting but quite nice to pat.

- Llamas - Should be called 'Llames': see Donkeys.

- Sheep - See Donkeys, but not nice to pat.

- Horses - A Big One and Some Little Ones. Not unlike Donkeys, except that one of the little horses bit my finger. Was my own fault.

- Rabbits - why are these even at the zoo?

- Mini-cows - Ok so they're actually called Highland Cattle. They're like regular cows, only about chest-high and ten times more awesome. They rocked! My favourite was one that looked exactly like the following picture, but was black.

He totally has a band.

I want a little herd of these hipsters.

- Mink - Mink is Andrea's cat. I petted him when I was at Andrea's house this afternoon. Hey, Minko!


Animals I Did Not Pet, but Very Much Wanted To

- Goat. - The first thing Kate said to me when I mentioned going to Willowbank and petting things was, "Don't touch the goat." This was rapidly followed by Mum, who said "Do NOT touch the goat!" "OK! OK! I will not touch the goat!" Turns out that the goat urinates on his own head (I thought this was pretty impressive until I realised it is the head that he moves, not the stream of urine) to make himself nice for the ladies. So we DO NOT TOUCH THE GOAT, or everything we do smells of urine forever. Got to the zoo and saw the Untouchable Goat, who was just crying out for some love! However, I did not touch the goat. Instead, I stood next to the goat, wagging my finger and looking stern, while Kate took a photo of me Not Touching The Goat. I really wanted to touch him.

- Gibbons - Not allowed to touch them (although apparently last time we went to Willowbank, when I was Just Wee, my granny fed them a bit of licorice. Sigh). Was at Andrea's this afternoon and she said out of the blue, "Are you OK?" "Yes," I said, "am fine." "Oh," she said, "you looked a bit sad." "No, was just thinking of Gibbons." Thinking of Gibbons is good band name; Gibbon Query also not bad.

- Kiwi - "Do not touch the Kiwi it is a very shy bird yada yada yada." Also was bloody miles away and first one I saw was not Kiwi at all, was rock. Second one was bonafide Kiwi, but still not very interesting.

- Black & White Ruffed Lemur - Could not reach. Also was not supposed to touch them, but I would have flouted that rule without a second thought! Look at them!

Well, look at this one.

Dude! I really really want one. One of the ones we saw was stretched out on a tree branch in the classic lounging-in-the-sun pose. He even had an tree-branch armrest on one side, had tilted his head back and was stretching lazily from time to time. All he needed was a little lemur beer. Lemurs remind me of a dog/human hybrid.

In summary: Nature rocks.

BUTTS

So a while ago Andrea and I were talking about butts, as you do, and it came up that I saw more of them than most people. Not in the conventional setting (i.e. before/during/after sliming the banana Doing The Deed (although, ok, also then)) but rather in situations where most people would manage to avoid seeing someone's bottom. I have either amazingly good or amazingly bad luck, depending on which way you choose to look at it.

Story of the week is from a lovely friend of Andrea's and new friend of mine. Am not sure if she wants to be named, so won't name her, but during a generally ass-related conversation she told a great story about how she was on the gondola going down, and there was another gondola carriage coming up, "And as it went past," she said in a rather scandalised tone, "I saw a bottom." "What was it doing?" we asked. "Mooning me!" Poor thing. My mother was also once presented with a "large Samoan brown-eye" that was being thrust out the window of a passing car. Anyway, enough about other people's butt tourism.

I thought that as Andrea seemed intrigued by my chance encounters with random pairs of buttocks (or, as I call them, Accidental Bum Sightings), that I would write a book about these. Below are some excerpts. Do you know any publishers?


Tales from the Rear
Adventures in Butt Tourism

I remember my first ABS as clearly as if it was yesterday. I woke, slightly muzzy about the head, to the rays of the midafternoon sun streaming through my window. I flared my nostrils, sniffing at the stale, nicotine-streaked air. Something had woken me - an unnatural rustling sound, disrupting the peaceful noise of car engines and children's screams drifting in from the school outside. It was only much later that I found out that my flatmate, James, had woken midafternoon with a powerful thirst, inspired perhaps by the previous evening's debauchery. Under the impression that he had the house to himself, James had scampered down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix himself a drink and snack, clad only in hunger, hair and the skin the Lord gave him. The rustling noise that had woken me was, in fact, the destruction of the seal on a box of graham crackers. I was unaware James was in the house, and thought perhaps we were being robbed. Grasping a stiletto in my hand, I set out to investigate. Carefully, so as not to startle the intruder, I rose from my bed and donned my robe, then tiptoed to the doorway. The creaking of the door startled the snacking James, who bolted from the kitchen just as I stepped into the hallway. I glimpsed a pale pair of hastily bouncing buttocks as he skidded around the corner and disappeared into his room. Some five minutes later as I was updating my field notes, there came a knock on the door. "Enter," I said. James entered, now clothed and looking sheepish. "I am sorry," he said, "that you saw my bum." I reassured him that a naked arse between friends was no matter, and that perhaps some day our situations would be reversed. Luckily, this never came to pass.

One of the more traumatising ABS of my career took place not so long ago, in a small townhouse where I thought I would be safe for an evening from the ravages of the bare-assed. I was visiting a friend who, for the purpose of discretion, we shall refer to as Peter Pickle. It should probably be mentioned at this point that Peter Pickle and I had previously engaged in sexual congress, and that therefore he may not be entirely to blame for his misinterpretation of the situation - however. I had retired to the ladies' room to powder my nose, and when I returned to the boudoir of Peter Pickle, where we were watching a DVD and drinking rather heavily, I found that in my brief absence he had removed his trousers. He had risen from the bed and was staring out the window, and so it was that I was confronted with the sight of his naked buttocks. I enquired, politely yet frostily, why he had seen fit to display his rear. He shuffled awkwardly and, casting around for an answer that did not imply he had presumed sex was forthcoming (pardon the pun) declared that he felt like taking the air, and did not want to wear pants for this expedition. And so it was that Peter Pickle and I walked pantsless through suburbia at three in the morning on that chill Sunday.

Oh, the tales I could tell you! The buttocks I have accidentally sighted! But alas, dear readers, no more can I relate tonight, for I have to go and write a haiku.

I would have been a crappy pioneer

Today I went to Lyttelton, Town of Strangely Placed Cats.* Lyttelton is a small port town about 20 minutes away from Christchurch (which is Where I Live.) The original settlers came ashore at Lyttelton, then wandered over to Christchurch, via a track called 'The Bridle Path,' and built this city. On rock and roll. Mum suggested last week that she and I get up early on Saturday (which it is) and walk the Bridle Path over to Lyttelton, as apparently it's 'something every Cantabrian should be able to say they've done.' Whee. I was not really listening and said "Yes let's sounds fun I am trying to watch 'Merica's Got You-Know-What though so can we discuss it another time" and before I knew it I had signed up!

This was OK. I had, with my limited knowledge of geography, visualised the Bridle Path as being a gentle stroll round the bays, perhaps, or a jaunty trot down the dales. I had visualised myself, notebook in hand, meandering along writing pithy observations about country life. I had imagined sauntering merrily along the beachfront, feeling superior to the cattle. I had even considered wearing a beret. I had completely forgotten that in between Christchurch and Lyttelton there is a big mother-fucking hill. (I have got to learn some basic geography.) So we were driving out towards the hills - nice sunny day - when suddenly it dawned on me.

"Mum," I said, "we're not going over the Port Hills, are we?"
She gave me a strange look and said, "Where did you think the Bridle Path was?"
"I feel I have been duped!" I said, because I did.
"You have duped yourself."

Curses! Duped by my own ignorance once again!

It took an hour to go up one side of the hill and down the other (we stopped a lot) and I regretted my careless decision to not bring a drink bottle (we don't need no water let the motherfuckers burn (my lungs are the motherfuckers (birds don't have lungs did you know that))). I also yearned for the sweet embrace of death and complained a lot. Apparently the early settlers climbed up & over this carrying bedding & babies & God knows what else. I would have got five minutes up the hill and gone 'fuck it, I'm staying in Lyttelton.'

Here is the view from the top!



Through the red mist in front of my eyes, I can see my house from here! said Ally the Pioneer


Not so scenic when you think you're going to vomit.

Anyway, after that traumatic experience, we met my aunt and cousin in Lyttelton for a much-needed coffee. I could quite happily live in Lyttelton, I think; there are lots of lovely old cottegy houses, and while it's true that there's only really one main street it has a library, a bank, a supermarket, and a lot of cafes and bars. I would settle down there and Be A Writer (would have to actually write something, though, which is the catch and kind of off-putting.) Also, would miss the big city life. Try to get by. Pressure no ease up no matter how hard I try! - not a problem one would have in Lyttelton.

Am just rambling now, but seen at Lyttelton Farmers' Market: 'Perpetual Spinach' plants (these do not sound like they should be a real plant. Also it's not just plain old spinach because they were also selling that); signposted 'Dog Parking Area,' with dogs tied up in a row; Birth of a Hipster (saw a fashionably nerdy guy with retro glasses and a silly beard trying on vintage hats - had a little giggle to myself before launching superhero-like across the market stall and knocking the hat from his hand just seconds before it was too late! no I didn't really do that but I kind of wish I had); stunning little pink hat with that bit of lace that falls in front of your face and makes you look demure & coy. Almost bought it but then came to my senses at the last minute.

Also, I bought a new notebook! It is the right size to fit in my handbag (old one was, although 'fashionably large', irritatingly capacious (hey, I like that sentence, so it stays no matter how nonsensical it may be)) and has 'KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON' emblazoned in the front in old Army-style font, with the crown above it. Very, um, me.

On the way home we passed the Legalize Cannabis Party having a Legalize Cannabis party in one of the parks, with a sign saying "TOOT if u TOKE." My mother refused to toot, but then I suppose as she does not toke (neither do I) then that's fair enough.

Tomorrow: onesies and dogs and predicting the weather. Do not adjust your dial.


*one stalking a bird along the eaves of a house, one on windshield of car, one curled up on shadecloth covering a plant nursery (precarious as shadecloth already had one roughly cat-sized hole in it), one clinging to the side of a house! but it turned out to be a drainpipe and not a cat at all.

In which a Good Time is had by All

I went out last night, to an acoustic gig in a bar in the perversely spelt town of Lyttelton. Here are some randomly collected bits of the evening.

I kick-started the night by deciding to have a little glass of wine while I was getting ready to go out (getting ready is dull and takes YEARS because sometimes I look like a hobbit) and then all of a sudden the whole bottle was gone! Whoops. So a good night was more or less guaranteed from there.

Arrived at the venue after a car trip in which I spoke at length on many uninteresting subjects.

The first thing I did, after some meeting-people bollocks (it was not really bollocks, they were nice people), was to trot onto the deck with beer in one hand and fag in the other, and launch headfirst into an existing conversation. (I have absolutely no qualms about doing this. It is the best way to meet interesting people, and if it turns out that they're not interesting after all, well, you can just wander off again.) So I got talking to this bunch of total strangers - who were nice if a little too hipster-trendy for my liking - and something got me onto how I wasn't expecting the gig to be much good because my personal opinion, which one day I will learn to keep to myself, of acoustic alt-rock-pop-folk guitar-and-male-singer music is not overly high. I believe, in fact, that the word 'wankfest' may have been used. A couple of times. So it turned out that two of the people I was talking to were acoustic guitar alt-pop-rock-folk-wank artists who were playing that evening. Nice.

I retreated from that and listened to the friend I'd gone to see play play - which was good - and then after he finished went to get another drink because my attention span for sitting and listening to music is not high.

I was standing at the bar when a dishevelled old man wandered up to me (it was that sort of bar, trendy kids mixed in with locals). He looked like a 60-year-old goldminer - little shorts, chicken legs with knobbly knees, half his teeth and one of those face-covering beards that somehow points straight ahead. He was also exceptionally drunk and wanted to know if I'd be his doubles partner for a pool game that was about to start. So I spent the next hour or so playing pool with him and a bald chap about the same age called Bruce. Bruce's main feature, apart from not having any hair, was that his face was really seamy. As in lined with wrinkles. Seamy wrinkles. There was also a guy who was maybe a little older than me and looked strikingly like Clive Owen. He was not overly intelligent or particularly good at pool but was nice to look at. Me and Old Goldminer Dude, whose name escapes me, won a lot. Then we went outside and were joined by a blond hipster with really bright red lips, like he'd been sucking on a Traffic Light popsicle, and shiny shiny hair. He looked faintly cherubic but was actually quite rude. There was also a chap with a Hulk Hogan-esque mustache. I am good at making friends!

Anyway, eventually the bands finished and the people I was meant to be hanging out with instead of random locals swept me up on their way out the door. I was well behaved throughout, if you ignore the constant stream of horseshit I was talking, which everyone acclimatised to within about 15 minutes anyway. I hope. It was a nice evening! Much more fun than I thought it would be.

And then there was a Romantic Encounter but he reads this blog and I'm totally not allowed to talk about it.


***


Whatever, Trevor. (Sorry, Romantic Encounteree Whose Name Is Not Actually Trevor, but if you were expecting total discretion you may wish to rethink your choice of ladyfriend.) I wasn't expecting there to be a romantic encounter (although I guess you can't really launch yourself at someone's face (which is what I did) and then play the 'surprise' card) but I think it was a good call. No haiku required, because I don't do that sort of thing on a first date. (Stop laughing.) I would tell more details, mainly because I have a couple of really good puns I could slip in (tee hee, sl- no) but that would be a little unfair on Not Really Trevor. Which is how I will refer to him from now on. I shall just say that, in keeping with the rest of the evening, I had an unexpectedly nice time. (That sounds like kind of a lukewarm compliment, but if I was being honest I'd make NRTrevor blush, and scandalise my dear readers, and that I could never do.)

I like to lable my tabels so I know where to ladel*

*not relevant; this post is about veterans and, later, piracy

Saturday is ANZAC day. For anyone not from Australia or NZ, ANZAC (which stands for Australian & New Zealand Army Corps) Day is the national day of commemoration for soldiers who died in war. Not any specific war, just war in general. Well. Any of the wars that we've attended. (It also gave rise to a delicious biscuit but the war thing is more important.)

This is the first ANZAC day since I was about 8 that I won't be parading about in the middle of a brass band (yay!) but I'm going to go to the parade and service anyway. I considered going to the dawn service but then I realised I totally wouldn't get up on time. I mean, I respect the war dead, but not 6am respect. Sheesh.

My grandfather, like many people's grandfathers, fought in the Second World War. Unlike many other people's grandfathers, he also managed to find time to appropriate an Army truck and go on a brief, unauthorised tour of Italy with a comrade-in-arms. I don't really know the full story of that and can't ask Granddad (he is dead) but I must remember to ask Nana. My grandfather and I got on well - he had a wicked sense of humour and wrote some hilarious stories about his time in the war. My favourite memory of him is an ANZAC one - I played the Last Post at an ANZAC day service a few years ago, and it was pure straight bloody awful. I've never played anything that badly in public before or since. My grandfather was at the service and I was quite afraid to face him afterwards, having essentially crapped all over the solemnity of the service with my Godawful trumpeting, so I apologised to him in a very very wee voice. He didn't mind at all, because apparently his regiment's bugler kind of sucked and my rendition was suitably authentic. So I'm going to the service to honour his memory, rather than out of any desire to sit through an hour of churchin'. Wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.

Also, the PZS Acronym Competition finishes tomorrow at whenever I get up, so if you want to enter now's the time. You have some Pretty Zany Shit to beat but I'm sure you're up to it. The competition is about five posts back; I was going to put a hyperlink to it here but I'm not on my laptop (power cord = broken) and so I don't have the page where I learnt how to put hyperlinks in neatly bookmarked. Don't even bother trying to make sense of that last sentence, just go and find the original post; the title is a dead giveaway.

Today I had a half-baked notion to start a webcomic but nothing was funny and all I could think of was puns about ostriches. Maybe tomorrow. Or, if you're lucky, not.

My life currently consists of a lot of minor diversions linked by threads of bullshit conversation. I lack a vocation. Andrea said I should be a pirate but I do not have a boat. Does anyone have a boat I can borrow? Or a better suggestion.