Quote from my latest follower:
"Signed up as a
follower. Partly because I liked it, partly because the last follower
seemed to please you so much."
Both excellent reasons! Follow Nick's lead and be one of the early-adopters who can look back smugly when I'm famous and say you were in at the beginning.
It does make me so pathetically happy.
Teufel
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Flaws, Heroes & Pillars of the Earth
Today's topic was to have been something along the lines of:
A flaw in a hero doesn’t bring the hero down : rather it
demonstrates that flaws do not spoil a person. We are all flawed. We can be
great despite them and with them and even if we never manage to rid ourselves
of them. Give Ken Follett's Pillars of the Earth a quick read and muse upon the intertwining of good and evil, including one character doing something dreadful without which much of the action would never have occurred; Philip supporting various political
intrigues, including some which bring about the very situation that is to make his life and the good he is working so hard to create so very nearly impossible.
I have read a couple of headlines over the last week or so (but not yet taken the time to read the articles, sadly) suggesting that - gasp - flaws may have been discovered in the character and / or life of Sir Edmund Hillary. See above.
Mervyn Thompson had some whopping great flaws. Yet he was one of the greatest creative types and one of the most sincerely loving people I have ever come across. Despite everything.
Stephen Fry had the whole running-off-with-his-family-friend's-credit-card thing, after years of underachieving (for him) at school and stealing lollies and money from the boys and masters.
Plenty of characters in Pillars of the Earth (to briefly get back to the point) could have thrown their hands up in horror at either their own terrible shortcomings or their latest disaster - yet when they didn't, when they kept putting one foot in front of the other, after the style of the Large Woman Walking With Shopping Bags near Totton, or Dori and Nemo (just keep swimming ...), there always came a moment where life rushed in again and they were once more in the flow.
Even when character A (not to spoil the story for those who haven't read it yet) learnt what character B had once done, s/he didn't go and tell on her/him, he/she had the good sense to keep it in the past and keep going.
Yet with all this sturdy fortitude and gumption in the face of sometimes the most appalling adversity, those who deliberately use foul means in the quest for fair ends are not approved. Those who make the best of whatever has already been, morally questionable or otherwise, have life turn out the best for. To turn a cliché round inelegantly.
But the phone beeps, so I must away in an attempt to complete the most essential of three-days-ago's petty work before the close of e'en. Does God exact day-labour, light denied? Only if the bed's been stripped but not yet made.
Still foolishly holding to the hope of future regularity,
Teufel
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Briefly
So brief tonight, just to say there's no time to say anything. Also, did anyone I sent a link to this blog last week manage to get in? Many emailed me to say they couldn't get access. I followed the link from my own email and got in fine - was this because I was recognised as the author? It didn't use to be a problem.
I'll try again to send things around next time, but now away to more mundane things.
Toodle pip,
Teufel
I'll try again to send things around next time, but now away to more mundane things.
Toodle pip,
Teufel
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Please Comment! And Follow!
Allow me to prostrate myself and beg for comments and / or followships. Two followers is better than none, but lots would be even better. And do feel free to pass this link on to anyone you think might be interested - the more the merrier! -Teufel
Stephen Fry Tweets Me; Churches Full of Surprise Priests
Well, I really, really, really didn't!
But here I am, some months later rather than precisely about one week, once again determined to write weekly, if briefly, and occasionally even cogently.
Big news! I have a new follower! So exciting. Thank you Brian! I'll probably email this out to everyone again, more for the older stuff than this, but IF I really do start writing weekly, and IF the regularity leads to some degree of relevance, it might almost be worth looking in from time to time. Stephen Fry has. Yes, he really has. I tweeted him after his bunjy jump, wittily enough for him to take up my invitation to read one of my posts - the one about admiring Dorothy L. Sayers. And he replied (favourably) after reading it! I resisted the temptation to crow about it at the time, thinking of the future, when we'll be bosom buddies, chatting about our latest publications and keeping up a sort of Sand-Flaubert correspondence, and not wanting him to be put off by the idea I might just be some common or garden stalker, trying to get the attention of the Great Tweeter himself. Ah well, the damage is done now: next time he drops in to this blog he'll shake his head in sage disgust at my pettiness.
Anyway. Must be brief, as much to do that I ought to have done yesterday but didn't.
While at Russell for the recent Birdman competition (mad mid-winter-festival wharf-leaping weekend) I thought I'd attend Sunday service at the famous Christ Church - the one riddled with bullet holes, and boasting the grave of the first Pakeha woman to be buried in NZ - instead of just gaping like a tourist as I usually do - and who should I find officiating but Paula Franklin, ex Otamatea Repertory, and husband Gary (drop-dead gorgeous PE teacher of my youth) also on the committee. It was Sea Sunday, and I was reminded of the beautiful setting of the hymn "For those in peril on the sea" by Marion of Minstead Players, in Minstead - part of our rehearsed reading of Nick Mellersh's life of John Newton, the author of "Amazing Grace." We sang that hymn, but with the normal, not-quite-so-stirring tune.
Last time I went to a beautiful church service - largely for the singing and the beauty of the old building - but I also find, despite being probably more strongly agnostic now than ever, that I derive benefit from a traditional church service, even while not believing more than about 25% of it. I think I veer more and more toward Lloyd Geering's view that despite the non-existence of an actual, supernatural "God" (although I'm more agnostic on that point than him), religious practice is good for us, and helps focus us - he says, of Bible stories etc, "Use all of it - the myth, the stories, the legends, the morality" (I'm paraphrasing horribly - might look it up one day but not today). Not just of Christianity, I think he would agree, but myth and deep tales of all traditions, that have taken a kernel of perceived truth and embroidered it to enhance its power to grab our attention and to remain in our memory.
Anyway, I believe I started a sentence about last time I went to a service in a beautiful old church - lo and behold, the priest that time was a dear friend of my brother Brian's, met on-line and through published journals via poetry a few times over the years, but only met in the flesh once, at Brian's funeral. I managed to convince myself that it wasn't her after all, but it really was! She'd been a priest for years, and I'd just never known. Paula Franklin, on the other hand, had only recently been ordained fully. Who knows where we'll end up in life, eh?
Well, must away - the day nearly done and only about a tenth of my list of things to do done. 'Tis so often the way. Ho Hum. Toodle Pip. Until next Wednesday or Sunday. Really really really!
But here I am, some months later rather than precisely about one week, once again determined to write weekly, if briefly, and occasionally even cogently.
Big news! I have a new follower! So exciting. Thank you Brian! I'll probably email this out to everyone again, more for the older stuff than this, but IF I really do start writing weekly, and IF the regularity leads to some degree of relevance, it might almost be worth looking in from time to time. Stephen Fry has. Yes, he really has. I tweeted him after his bunjy jump, wittily enough for him to take up my invitation to read one of my posts - the one about admiring Dorothy L. Sayers. And he replied (favourably) after reading it! I resisted the temptation to crow about it at the time, thinking of the future, when we'll be bosom buddies, chatting about our latest publications and keeping up a sort of Sand-Flaubert correspondence, and not wanting him to be put off by the idea I might just be some common or garden stalker, trying to get the attention of the Great Tweeter himself. Ah well, the damage is done now: next time he drops in to this blog he'll shake his head in sage disgust at my pettiness.
Anyway. Must be brief, as much to do that I ought to have done yesterday but didn't.
While at Russell for the recent Birdman competition (mad mid-winter-festival wharf-leaping weekend) I thought I'd attend Sunday service at the famous Christ Church - the one riddled with bullet holes, and boasting the grave of the first Pakeha woman to be buried in NZ - instead of just gaping like a tourist as I usually do - and who should I find officiating but Paula Franklin, ex Otamatea Repertory, and husband Gary (drop-dead gorgeous PE teacher of my youth) also on the committee. It was Sea Sunday, and I was reminded of the beautiful setting of the hymn "For those in peril on the sea" by Marion of Minstead Players, in Minstead - part of our rehearsed reading of Nick Mellersh's life of John Newton, the author of "Amazing Grace." We sang that hymn, but with the normal, not-quite-so-stirring tune.
Last time I went to a beautiful church service - largely for the singing and the beauty of the old building - but I also find, despite being probably more strongly agnostic now than ever, that I derive benefit from a traditional church service, even while not believing more than about 25% of it. I think I veer more and more toward Lloyd Geering's view that despite the non-existence of an actual, supernatural "God" (although I'm more agnostic on that point than him), religious practice is good for us, and helps focus us - he says, of Bible stories etc, "Use all of it - the myth, the stories, the legends, the morality" (I'm paraphrasing horribly - might look it up one day but not today). Not just of Christianity, I think he would agree, but myth and deep tales of all traditions, that have taken a kernel of perceived truth and embroidered it to enhance its power to grab our attention and to remain in our memory.
Anyway, I believe I started a sentence about last time I went to a service in a beautiful old church - lo and behold, the priest that time was a dear friend of my brother Brian's, met on-line and through published journals via poetry a few times over the years, but only met in the flesh once, at Brian's funeral. I managed to convince myself that it wasn't her after all, but it really was! She'd been a priest for years, and I'd just never known. Paula Franklin, on the other hand, had only recently been ordained fully. Who knows where we'll end up in life, eh?
Well, must away - the day nearly done and only about a tenth of my list of things to do done. 'Tis so often the way. Ho Hum. Toodle Pip. Until next Wednesday or Sunday. Really really really!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Batley House, Jill Marshall, and Writing Again
Wednesday 28 March 2012 9pm NZ Time
It's hard to believe I haven't written here since Miriam's birthday last year.
Recently I am writing again, new stuff, and getting old stuff into shape, and organising life so there's more time for it, and much of it is due to an on-line course Mum and I signed up for, taught by Jill Marshall*, during which a group of us on the course had a one-day seminar with Jill up at Batley House on the Kaipara, the scene of the love story by Rae Roadley, "Love at the End of the Road," published by Penguin late last year.
Rae, one of the group, generously offered her lovely house as venue, and invited us all to stay overnight. I was nearing the end of her account of falling in love with man, house, and Otamatea, and it was thrilling to settle down to sleep in a big room upstairs, all well fed on schnapper caught by husband Rex, as well as a plate we'd each brought, and an evening of wine and good conversation under the country sky, dogs and cats milling around, with the sound of cattle, sea and a rather vigorous wind all close at hand - in fact something like roof iron was flapping just above my head as I turned off my light and was stunned by the utter darkness through the curtainless windows, before falling into a deep and refreshing, eight-hours-in-one-go, sleep. Earlier, a sky full of stars took my breath away as I roamed the driveway in search of mobile coverage to talk to children abandoned with their father overnight for the first time ever without me, brother having a birthday in Auckland, and father staying with old friends in Paparoa.
Driving the half-hour along winding metal roads, like reading Rae's book, every second letter box, every second page, contained a name I had gone to school with - Batley House is, after all, just past the end of Bickerstaffe Road, so on Saturday morning I flew past my dear old Otamatea High School as I did maths in my head, constantly revising rate of travel, how much tar seal I thought there might be, how much slower I'd be on the metal, how late I was going to be (arrived one minute early in the end!).
Thanks to Jill, both in terms of the content of her course, and the motivation factor of sitting down to do it, not to mention her enthusiasm and energy, I have now begun writing a book I've been carrying in my head for the last four years or so, which I hope to complete in a matter of a couple of months, and planned out a couple more, as well as tidying up my first novel, currently known as "Alchemy," for publication on Kindle, through Amazon.
And thanks for Mum, for finding the course and signing me onto it, and thanks to Rae for her hospitality, and thanks to Barbara, Jo, Zana for being such interesting people to rub shoulders with and get ideas from, and thanks to Rex for putting up with us, and to Niven for looking after the boys, and to Viktor E. Frankl, whose book on his experiences in Concentration Camps during World War II, and his strand of optimistic psychotherapy known as "Logotherapy" or "Tragic Optimism," having been at the back of my mind for the last seven or so years, I have finally read. I find his philosophy of life to my taste, and the timing of it has converged with the Batley trip and novel-writing course to provide another form of motivational push.
My time is up, so perhaps another time I will explain the Frankl reference more fully: tonight, suffice it to say that he got himself through hard labour in freezing conditions, underdressed and poorly shod, while suffering from typhus, with all the horrors of the Nazi torture regime, where the job was too hard, the strength was almost non-existent, and to show weakness was to be shot and left lying in the snow, by vividly imagining himself lecturing, after the war, in a well-appointed university lecture theatre, on how he had got himself through the worst of times.
My times are not at all worst, but I hold his example in mind when dealing with normal challenges that occasionally do seem impossible, or just too much if not too hard - and indeed, I hope I'm not jinxing anything by saying so, but many things seem to be coming together well: writing, home-schooling, fitness, ballet, household organisation -
But enough.
I must away, and with luck and / or good management, I will return to post again in precisely about one week!
(I know I've said that before, but I will, I really really will!)
By the way, was anyone else a little taken aback at which bits of Stephen Fry's comments on bunjy jumping the NZ Herald yesterday felt it necessary to *** out and which remained? Something like "Suckmothering Arse! I c*cking did it!"
I love Stephen Fry and find his creative approach to swearing very refreshing, even though I don't exactly share his vocabulary. I guess his swearing is as literate and articulate as the 15-year-old boys's who sat at the back of the bus when I was a younger High-School student wasn't.
Good night!
Teufel
* Author of Jane Blonde, Doghead, The Two Miss Parsons, amongst others.
It's hard to believe I haven't written here since Miriam's birthday last year.
Recently I am writing again, new stuff, and getting old stuff into shape, and organising life so there's more time for it, and much of it is due to an on-line course Mum and I signed up for, taught by Jill Marshall*, during which a group of us on the course had a one-day seminar with Jill up at Batley House on the Kaipara, the scene of the love story by Rae Roadley, "Love at the End of the Road," published by Penguin late last year.
Rae, one of the group, generously offered her lovely house as venue, and invited us all to stay overnight. I was nearing the end of her account of falling in love with man, house, and Otamatea, and it was thrilling to settle down to sleep in a big room upstairs, all well fed on schnapper caught by husband Rex, as well as a plate we'd each brought, and an evening of wine and good conversation under the country sky, dogs and cats milling around, with the sound of cattle, sea and a rather vigorous wind all close at hand - in fact something like roof iron was flapping just above my head as I turned off my light and was stunned by the utter darkness through the curtainless windows, before falling into a deep and refreshing, eight-hours-in-one-go, sleep. Earlier, a sky full of stars took my breath away as I roamed the driveway in search of mobile coverage to talk to children abandoned with their father overnight for the first time ever without me, brother having a birthday in Auckland, and father staying with old friends in Paparoa.
Driving the half-hour along winding metal roads, like reading Rae's book, every second letter box, every second page, contained a name I had gone to school with - Batley House is, after all, just past the end of Bickerstaffe Road, so on Saturday morning I flew past my dear old Otamatea High School as I did maths in my head, constantly revising rate of travel, how much tar seal I thought there might be, how much slower I'd be on the metal, how late I was going to be (arrived one minute early in the end!).
Thanks to Jill, both in terms of the content of her course, and the motivation factor of sitting down to do it, not to mention her enthusiasm and energy, I have now begun writing a book I've been carrying in my head for the last four years or so, which I hope to complete in a matter of a couple of months, and planned out a couple more, as well as tidying up my first novel, currently known as "Alchemy," for publication on Kindle, through Amazon.
And thanks for Mum, for finding the course and signing me onto it, and thanks to Rae for her hospitality, and thanks to Barbara, Jo, Zana for being such interesting people to rub shoulders with and get ideas from, and thanks to Rex for putting up with us, and to Niven for looking after the boys, and to Viktor E. Frankl, whose book on his experiences in Concentration Camps during World War II, and his strand of optimistic psychotherapy known as "Logotherapy" or "Tragic Optimism," having been at the back of my mind for the last seven or so years, I have finally read. I find his philosophy of life to my taste, and the timing of it has converged with the Batley trip and novel-writing course to provide another form of motivational push.
My time is up, so perhaps another time I will explain the Frankl reference more fully: tonight, suffice it to say that he got himself through hard labour in freezing conditions, underdressed and poorly shod, while suffering from typhus, with all the horrors of the Nazi torture regime, where the job was too hard, the strength was almost non-existent, and to show weakness was to be shot and left lying in the snow, by vividly imagining himself lecturing, after the war, in a well-appointed university lecture theatre, on how he had got himself through the worst of times.
My times are not at all worst, but I hold his example in mind when dealing with normal challenges that occasionally do seem impossible, or just too much if not too hard - and indeed, I hope I'm not jinxing anything by saying so, but many things seem to be coming together well: writing, home-schooling, fitness, ballet, household organisation -
But enough.
I must away, and with luck and / or good management, I will return to post again in precisely about one week!
(I know I've said that before, but I will, I really really will!)
By the way, was anyone else a little taken aback at which bits of Stephen Fry's comments on bunjy jumping the NZ Herald yesterday felt it necessary to *** out and which remained? Something like "Suckmothering Arse! I c*cking did it!"
I love Stephen Fry and find his creative approach to swearing very refreshing, even though I don't exactly share his vocabulary. I guess his swearing is as literate and articulate as the 15-year-old boys's who sat at the back of the bus when I was a younger High-School student wasn't.
Good night!
Teufel
* Author of Jane Blonde, Doghead, The Two Miss Parsons, amongst others.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Vinyl Café and the Kindness of Strangers
Listening to Stuart MacLean's Vinyl Café from Canada by podcast recently, his reader's story of two young kayakers meeting kindness and generosity wherever they travelled transported me back to the myriad people who helped me a little or a lot as I travelled round Europe on a bike and a shoestring.
Monsieur and Madame Pavard, who welcomed me to their farm on the strength of friends they'd met on a NZ farming exchange, took one look at me and sent me to the bath and my clothes to their laundry, then spent next morning wandering the town market choosing the best salmon savouries and cheeses of the region to regale me with a fine meal, not to mention a night or two in a real bed with crisp white sheets.
And Harald and Tut, older Danish farmers, who plied my friend and I with traditional Christmas cookies and local beer on the train over the water from Hamburg to Copenhagen, then found us on their doorstep later that night as we took them at their word - "come to us if you have any trouble!" - we knew you usually didn't have to book youth hostels, and we weren't fussy - but we hadn't banked on them ALL being closed for the Christmas break, and we couldn't afford even the cheapest hotel. Over four days with the Hansens, they showed us round city and countryside, driving us to the Viking museum at Roskilde, complete with (very short) royal tombs - where I promptly fell into the sea through a coating of ice and snow and had to be dragged out and fed hot cocoa. We saw a changing of the guard similar to that of London, complete with Busbys (Busbies?), danced the night away at their young neighbour's New Year's party, and Harald even drove out on icy roads at 5am to deliver us to the railway station after the ride they had arranged for us - a nurse who had to be at work early - had crashed us into a power pole on the refrozen snow.
One man ran a hundred metres down the street in his white socks to correct some wrong directions he'd just given me on the map - one family fed me up despite my protests that I'd had breakfast - I hadn't, and I had a hundred kilometres to cycle before the next ATM and no money left. A friend had given me an ankh to wear as a necklace just before my departure solo with bike and pup tent through France, Italy and Greece at the end of my year's teaching in France, and it really seemed to attract good people and good luck. Like my mouth organ, also a gift from a friend, which was grabbed off me in a back street in my earliest days exploring France, I swear by a witch - she looked like the cat lady on the Simpsons - "C'est un harmonica?" she screeched, grinned, played it a little, spat in it, and handed it back, grinning. I'm sure she blessed it in some weird way. Too many to mention - some deserve a chapter each in the eventual book.
Like the Norman farming family who arrived in my life via a flat tyre before I had my own puncture repair kit - 16km away from town, bike shops shut and garages not able or willing to help (and probably no money on me or food - I would have just headed off into the countryside for half an hour or so on a sunny Sunday and got carried away ...). I leaned over the farm gate and asked if anyone could help me - figured someone on a farm would have the requisite mechanical know-how and equipment - and was met with one of those linguistic oddities that you don't learn all at once in class, and then remember forever afterwards because of the circumstances involved - "Mademoiselle has died?" That's what he said - I thought it must be metaphorical, something like "dying of heat" - thought he might be offering me a drink - so I tried to explain that no, it wasn't that, it was a flat tyre. Turned out "crevé" (died) wasn't quite the same as "crevé un pneu" (or "crevé" for short) - got a flat tyre. We sorted that out, and while he fixed it kindly for me his wife gave me cold drinks and spent literally about ten minutes finding out where I came from. My French was good so when I said I wasn't from near here she thought I must be from some far-off region of France, and when I said New Zealand she actually went off and came back with a map of France for me to show her where! I said no, no, it was overseas, and she came back with a map of Europe. Next to Australia! I said, and there she was with one that extended as far as Turkey! We got it straightened out eventually (reminding me of the young lass in a class I taught - about 12 years old - after I'd talked for about ten minutes about NZ and life there and the southern hemisphere and Australia, and a single NZ farmer having as many as 300 cows to milk before breakfast (except I said "breastfeed" them instead of milk them!), millions of sheep and so forth, she put her hand up: "Madame! Madame! Did you come on a boat or on a train?) Anyway, this lovely farming family invited me back the following week to their first grand-daughter's second birthday, picked me up, put me up for the night, and the meal was the most extravagant of my life! I swear, 7 or 8 courses, each with its own alcoholic drink, and the meal lasted (only the actual food-eating part of it, at table, en famille, 2-year-old and all) four hours, not counting pre-dinner nibblies or after-dinner coffee. Delicious, and great company, and with that I will have to end this very décousue pseudo-column as I fear the timer I set to circumscribe it was not set correctly and I have run over madly.
Let's all hope the next one will be better written and closer to a week away than a year away!
And has everyone caught up with Stephen Fry's new documentary series on language called Planet Word? There are whole episodes on youtube, including one with Brian Blessed doing a lot of swearing. It's BBC2, I think they're up to Episode 3, so presumably it should be available by some sort of podcast if it disappears off Youtube.
Monsieur and Madame Pavard, who welcomed me to their farm on the strength of friends they'd met on a NZ farming exchange, took one look at me and sent me to the bath and my clothes to their laundry, then spent next morning wandering the town market choosing the best salmon savouries and cheeses of the region to regale me with a fine meal, not to mention a night or two in a real bed with crisp white sheets.
And Harald and Tut, older Danish farmers, who plied my friend and I with traditional Christmas cookies and local beer on the train over the water from Hamburg to Copenhagen, then found us on their doorstep later that night as we took them at their word - "come to us if you have any trouble!" - we knew you usually didn't have to book youth hostels, and we weren't fussy - but we hadn't banked on them ALL being closed for the Christmas break, and we couldn't afford even the cheapest hotel. Over four days with the Hansens, they showed us round city and countryside, driving us to the Viking museum at Roskilde, complete with (very short) royal tombs - where I promptly fell into the sea through a coating of ice and snow and had to be dragged out and fed hot cocoa. We saw a changing of the guard similar to that of London, complete with Busbys (Busbies?), danced the night away at their young neighbour's New Year's party, and Harald even drove out on icy roads at 5am to deliver us to the railway station after the ride they had arranged for us - a nurse who had to be at work early - had crashed us into a power pole on the refrozen snow.
One man ran a hundred metres down the street in his white socks to correct some wrong directions he'd just given me on the map - one family fed me up despite my protests that I'd had breakfast - I hadn't, and I had a hundred kilometres to cycle before the next ATM and no money left. A friend had given me an ankh to wear as a necklace just before my departure solo with bike and pup tent through France, Italy and Greece at the end of my year's teaching in France, and it really seemed to attract good people and good luck. Like my mouth organ, also a gift from a friend, which was grabbed off me in a back street in my earliest days exploring France, I swear by a witch - she looked like the cat lady on the Simpsons - "C'est un harmonica?" she screeched, grinned, played it a little, spat in it, and handed it back, grinning. I'm sure she blessed it in some weird way. Too many to mention - some deserve a chapter each in the eventual book.
Like the Norman farming family who arrived in my life via a flat tyre before I had my own puncture repair kit - 16km away from town, bike shops shut and garages not able or willing to help (and probably no money on me or food - I would have just headed off into the countryside for half an hour or so on a sunny Sunday and got carried away ...). I leaned over the farm gate and asked if anyone could help me - figured someone on a farm would have the requisite mechanical know-how and equipment - and was met with one of those linguistic oddities that you don't learn all at once in class, and then remember forever afterwards because of the circumstances involved - "Mademoiselle has died?" That's what he said - I thought it must be metaphorical, something like "dying of heat" - thought he might be offering me a drink - so I tried to explain that no, it wasn't that, it was a flat tyre. Turned out "crevé" (died) wasn't quite the same as "crevé un pneu" (or "crevé" for short) - got a flat tyre. We sorted that out, and while he fixed it kindly for me his wife gave me cold drinks and spent literally about ten minutes finding out where I came from. My French was good so when I said I wasn't from near here she thought I must be from some far-off region of France, and when I said New Zealand she actually went off and came back with a map of France for me to show her where! I said no, no, it was overseas, and she came back with a map of Europe. Next to Australia! I said, and there she was with one that extended as far as Turkey! We got it straightened out eventually (reminding me of the young lass in a class I taught - about 12 years old - after I'd talked for about ten minutes about NZ and life there and the southern hemisphere and Australia, and a single NZ farmer having as many as 300 cows to milk before breakfast (except I said "breastfeed" them instead of milk them!), millions of sheep and so forth, she put her hand up: "Madame! Madame! Did you come on a boat or on a train?) Anyway, this lovely farming family invited me back the following week to their first grand-daughter's second birthday, picked me up, put me up for the night, and the meal was the most extravagant of my life! I swear, 7 or 8 courses, each with its own alcoholic drink, and the meal lasted (only the actual food-eating part of it, at table, en famille, 2-year-old and all) four hours, not counting pre-dinner nibblies or after-dinner coffee. Delicious, and great company, and with that I will have to end this very décousue pseudo-column as I fear the timer I set to circumscribe it was not set correctly and I have run over madly.
Let's all hope the next one will be better written and closer to a week away than a year away!
And has everyone caught up with Stephen Fry's new documentary series on language called Planet Word? There are whole episodes on youtube, including one with Brian Blessed doing a lot of swearing. It's BBC2, I think they're up to Episode 3, so presumably it should be available by some sort of podcast if it disappears off Youtube.
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