Saw this question on the back of a bus this morning, an advert for the University of Canterbury, and it is an interesting question. We are just about at the stage now, technologically speaking, that we may need to start asking this.
First I suppose we have to decide what a robot is. If it's just a machine that does what we tell it is it a robot? Yes, I think so. So do you consider your answering machine a robot? How could it possibly be "equal" to you; it's like comparing two entirely different organisms. Or do we define robot as something that is capable of "thinking" for itself or has a humanoid form, the sort of sci-fi definition that brings to mind Hal or The Terminator?
And what do we mean by equal? Equal in law I guess the question means, because many robots are in fact already superior to us in strength, speed and cognitive ability. Should a robot have legal rights, for example not to be wantonly destroyed when superseded?
And what about APs - Artificial People - genetically enhanced human beings like those hunted by Deckard in Bladerunner? Read Robert Heinlein's "Friday" (which oddly enough starts off in Christchurch) or Paolo Bacigallupi's The Wind-up girl, for versions of the AP theme. Not "natural" in the sense of created by genetic serendipity; not really human, but not non-human either, rather super-human, which makes them threatening to the ordinary average humans around them..
What kind of moral obligation does the creator of these entities have towards these creations, if any? This question was probably first articulated by Mary Shelley in "Frankenstein"; the monster is not inherently evil but becomes evil after rejection by his creator and human society.
No doubt a philosoper could sort out some answers. Or would s/he just come up with more questions?
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
The hills are alive...
...not with the sound of music but with people out and enjoying the unseasonably warm day. Yesterday was cold, about 12 degrees and cloudy, today was 17 degrees, hot and sunny. Everyone seemed to be making the most of the weather as it won't last. I went up to Victoria Park (on the Port Hills above Christchurch for overseas readers). I haven't been there for a long time, and had a shortish walk and basked in the sun on a rock, like a lizard. Very pleasant, fresh warm breeze, smell of olearia flowers and the sound of the pine trees. Nice. (See pictures below)
Today's photos
Maple tree in my garden
This may be the last rose of summer. Appropriately named Summer Sweet.
View from Latter's Track, Victoria Park, up toward the Port Hills summits
View out toward the Southern Alps, covered in NW cloud, from Victoria Park.
Protea in the protea walk at Victoria Park
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Much Ado About Nothing
No, this is not some smart sarcastic comment on a current event but the name of the play I saw today. It's always been my favourite Shakespeare comedy since I saw the BBC version years ago, with Cherie Lunghi and Robert Lindsay. It really is very sexy, two equals sparring at each other, unlike Taming of the Shrew which grates on my feminist sensibilites.
This was my first visit to the new Court Theatre, relocated in Addington, an old industrial area of town, escaping the badly-damaged city site that was their home for many years. Next to an old ruined flour mill and almost on top of the railway line, the new theatre is housed in a large warehouse. I really like it; it's much roomier and has great parking, unlike the old cramped quarters. This area of town is
about to undergo a renaissance. There are plans afoot for the old flour mill site next door to be a shopping/entertainment/restaurant precinct, and there are already two theatres close together, the Court, and the Riccarton Players Mill Theatre in an adjoining building. Look at the facebook site New Christchurch if you'd like to see the drawings.
The performance was very enjoyable. The set design was wonderful, transporting us to sunny Sicily, and the ladies' costumes inspiring. (I sat there trying to work out why we don't wear such feminine clothes anymore - what ever happened to beautiful textiles? why do we wear so much black?) On the minus side, the sound is a bit dead in some parts of the stage, and some of the younger players' showed their inexperience. Shakespearean speech is not like ordinary speech; it needs to be given a certain rhythm and emphasis if the meaning is to be conveyed properly. It's not to be played sotto voce or with the Kiwi habit of upwards inflexion at the end of the sentence? Making it sound like a question? Perhaps this is the fault of a director too lazy or reluctant to pull newbies up. But I'm being too critical perhaps; I still enjoyed myself and the rest of the audience seemed to too, mainly older persons (thank God no school groups, although some bloody fool dropped their bloody Jaffas right at the critical moment when Benedick speaks his love for the first time).
PS. Why DO people eat during performances? Can't they go for two hours without snacking? Same goes for those people who buy giant tubs of popcorn at the movies - are they afraid they'll die of starvation before the movie ends?
This was my first visit to the new Court Theatre, relocated in Addington, an old industrial area of town, escaping the badly-damaged city site that was their home for many years. Next to an old ruined flour mill and almost on top of the railway line, the new theatre is housed in a large warehouse. I really like it; it's much roomier and has great parking, unlike the old cramped quarters. This area of town is
about to undergo a renaissance. There are plans afoot for the old flour mill site next door to be a shopping/entertainment/restaurant precinct, and there are already two theatres close together, the Court, and the Riccarton Players Mill Theatre in an adjoining building. Look at the facebook site New Christchurch if you'd like to see the drawings.
The performance was very enjoyable. The set design was wonderful, transporting us to sunny Sicily, and the ladies' costumes inspiring. (I sat there trying to work out why we don't wear such feminine clothes anymore - what ever happened to beautiful textiles? why do we wear so much black?) On the minus side, the sound is a bit dead in some parts of the stage, and some of the younger players' showed their inexperience. Shakespearean speech is not like ordinary speech; it needs to be given a certain rhythm and emphasis if the meaning is to be conveyed properly. It's not to be played sotto voce or with the Kiwi habit of upwards inflexion at the end of the sentence? Making it sound like a question? Perhaps this is the fault of a director too lazy or reluctant to pull newbies up. But I'm being too critical perhaps; I still enjoyed myself and the rest of the audience seemed to too, mainly older persons (thank God no school groups, although some bloody fool dropped their bloody Jaffas right at the critical moment when Benedick speaks his love for the first time).
PS. Why DO people eat during performances? Can't they go for two hours without snacking? Same goes for those people who buy giant tubs of popcorn at the movies - are they afraid they'll die of starvation before the movie ends?
Monday, May 21, 2012
Simon's Cat 'Fly Guy'
Tom's chasing a fly around as I post this - must remember to keep my mouth shut!
Miscellanea
I've just tried to post a video of the lovely Thomas, but it didn't seem to be working, took so long I eventually cancelled the post. Don't know if this is normal (I know that moving images take longer to post) or just some Blogger/Windows thing. I did find out some useful info. about the .THM file extension that you get with Canon cameras when you make a vid. This is metadata about the technical aspects of the video, and you can delete it from your files if you are sure you will never need it again. Would be useful if you are a professional or serious hobbyist photographer/videographer, but probably not at my present level.
Reading a biography of Lady Hester Stanhope, "Star of the morning" by Kirsten Ellis. Well-written and researched, a pity that Lady Hester was not a more likeable person. Remarkable, yes, likeable, no. With a self-confidence that bordered on lunacy, she became a sort of de-facto sheikh, propelled largely by her own massive ego and the utter bewilderment of the people of the Middle East when confronted by this strange female phenomenon. She was a man's woman who loved fast horses and hard weaponry, and had many lovers but few friends. I haven't finished the book yet, but I think she came to a bad end, perhaps not surprisingly.
It's been very cold here recently. The heat-pump has been fixed (all my fault of course) but I can't say that I like it much. It's good for quick warming when I come in at the end of the day, and in the morning, but it's goddamned blowy, which is what I was afraid of. It's warm but not cosy. I'm still using the old bar-heater once the room has warmed. I want a log-fire! So I wouldn't recommend a heat-pump; the only good thing is that it might help sell the house if I ever need to. I so, so resent that those buggers at ECAN(t) have condemned me to a lukewarm winter.
And also we've had a little swarm of aftershocks here over the last few days, one quite large at 4.9. Even scared the cats which is unusual - Thomas' tail did that hilarious self-inflating thing, can't help but laugh.
Reading a biography of Lady Hester Stanhope, "Star of the morning" by Kirsten Ellis. Well-written and researched, a pity that Lady Hester was not a more likeable person. Remarkable, yes, likeable, no. With a self-confidence that bordered on lunacy, she became a sort of de-facto sheikh, propelled largely by her own massive ego and the utter bewilderment of the people of the Middle East when confronted by this strange female phenomenon. She was a man's woman who loved fast horses and hard weaponry, and had many lovers but few friends. I haven't finished the book yet, but I think she came to a bad end, perhaps not surprisingly.
It's been very cold here recently. The heat-pump has been fixed (all my fault of course) but I can't say that I like it much. It's good for quick warming when I come in at the end of the day, and in the morning, but it's goddamned blowy, which is what I was afraid of. It's warm but not cosy. I'm still using the old bar-heater once the room has warmed. I want a log-fire! So I wouldn't recommend a heat-pump; the only good thing is that it might help sell the house if I ever need to. I so, so resent that those buggers at ECAN(t) have condemned me to a lukewarm winter.
And also we've had a little swarm of aftershocks here over the last few days, one quite large at 4.9. Even scared the cats which is unusual - Thomas' tail did that hilarious self-inflating thing, can't help but laugh.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Arcadia, by Lauren Groff
Good books always leave a kind of nimbus behind in the mind of the reader; you keep on thinking about them, perhaps puzzzling over them, long after they're finished. One such novel is Arcadia by Lauren Groff, the story of Bit Stone, a boy born and brought up in a 1970s commune in New York State. The first child born to the group, Bit is premature and small for his age, something of a visionary child living in his own world, but it's his relationships with the women in his life, both in the commune and after the commune falls apart that form the heart of the book.
There's no real plot, which will annoy some people, and the novel is written in a lyrical, somewhat elegiacal tone, which will annoy others. Bit is no action hero and thank goodness for that, and we perceive the story entirely through him. He enshrines his childhood in the commune as his happiest time, but others think differently. Helle, the girl he grows up with in the commune, on the past:
"Oh, Bit. I can't believe you don't remember. It was cold... We were never warm. We never had enough to eat. We never had enough clothes. I had to wake up every single night to someone fucking someone...Everywhere I was smelled like spunk. "
I liked the intensity of the descriptions, the physicality of everday things, cooking, sleeping, washing clothes, eating, which make the novel's subjects seem at once both super-real and dreamlike. Quite different to any fiction I've read in a long time. Recommended to those who like quiet, thought-inducing books.
There's no real plot, which will annoy some people, and the novel is written in a lyrical, somewhat elegiacal tone, which will annoy others. Bit is no action hero and thank goodness for that, and we perceive the story entirely through him. He enshrines his childhood in the commune as his happiest time, but others think differently. Helle, the girl he grows up with in the commune, on the past:
"Oh, Bit. I can't believe you don't remember. It was cold... We were never warm. We never had enough to eat. We never had enough clothes. I had to wake up every single night to someone fucking someone...Everywhere I was smelled like spunk. "
I liked the intensity of the descriptions, the physicality of everday things, cooking, sleeping, washing clothes, eating, which make the novel's subjects seem at once both super-real and dreamlike. Quite different to any fiction I've read in a long time. Recommended to those who like quiet, thought-inducing books.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Valsanzibio, Venetian Hills
Photos taken last May at Valsanzibio, a classic Venetan Baroque garden. It was a very hot day and I had walked a long way; the water and shade were glorious. Entering into the garden, my first response was "Wow!" which is exactly the response that the designers were looking for. Built by a very wealthy man, Zuane Francesco Barbarigo, designed by Luigi Bernini, Vatican architect and fountain expert, the garden is an "allegory of man's progress toward his own perfectibility and salvation". It also showed how wealthy Barbarigo was; he could afford to throw large amounts of water around just for pleasure, not for drinking or watering his vegetables.
Verucca!
There's a first time for everything, and today was the first time I have frozen a verucca. I've got a verucca between my little and fourth toes. It's quite painful, and today I summoned up the courage to use the freezing kit I bought from the chemist three weeks ago. "You MUST read all the instructions before proceeding" said the diktat. "Do not apply to broken or inflamed skin, apply for 30 seconds mininum but not more that 40 seconds" Do not, do not, so many do nots. "Do not use if not possessed of nerves of steel" it should say. Now I live in fear that I've done something wrong, that my toe will fall off or I'll get blood poisoning, etc etc. I don't need to go base-jumping or sky-diving; just burning off a verucca gives me all the thrills I need. The fun never falters at the far-out pa. (Perhaps I should use this as my blog intro.)
Verucca is a lovely name for a gross, warty thing. It sounds like the name of a transgender super-model from somewhere like Bosnia-Herzgovnia. Move aside, Andrej, make way for Verucca.
One year ago today, I was in Galzignano, a smallish town in the Venetian Hills. It was my rest day on an eight-day walk, and fortuitously, the only day it rained. I spent the day in the hotel, the morning lying in bed trying to read Italian Vogue, the afternoon napping. My feet hurt, so did my old arthritic body, but most of all I remember lunchtime, not because of what I ate (which was excellent) but because of my fellow guests in the hotel restaurant. A large group of family and friends had gathered to celebrate a boy's first communion. They were all beautifully dressed and beautifully behaved. No one got drunk, or threw up, or did stupid embarrassing things to the guest of honour. The adults enjoyed themselves, the kids enjoyed themselves and I enjoyed myself. And wished New Zealanders could be more like them.
Verucca is a lovely name for a gross, warty thing. It sounds like the name of a transgender super-model from somewhere like Bosnia-Herzgovnia. Move aside, Andrej, make way for Verucca.
One year ago today, I was in Galzignano, a smallish town in the Venetian Hills. It was my rest day on an eight-day walk, and fortuitously, the only day it rained. I spent the day in the hotel, the morning lying in bed trying to read Italian Vogue, the afternoon napping. My feet hurt, so did my old arthritic body, but most of all I remember lunchtime, not because of what I ate (which was excellent) but because of my fellow guests in the hotel restaurant. A large group of family and friends had gathered to celebrate a boy's first communion. They were all beautifully dressed and beautifully behaved. No one got drunk, or threw up, or did stupid embarrassing things to the guest of honour. The adults enjoyed themselves, the kids enjoyed themselves and I enjoyed myself. And wished New Zealanders could be more like them.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Mother's Day
Had trouble posting this picture. Mum always hated having her picture taken, so I guess the idea of being seen around the world on the Internet didn't appeal to her spirit! She also hated Mother's Day; she saw it as a brazen American attempt to cash in commercially on people's emotions, so we never celebrated it as a special day. This is the best photo I have of her, taken candidly (she'd rarely pose) on Christmas Day 2010 in my garden. The pale green cardigan, sunhat (bought at the Nelson market during a summer holiday) and book in her hand is so her. (The book is 'Major Pettigrew's last stand').
Mum as a Girl Guide, c1932 
Mum's 21st birthday portrait. I still have the beautiful diamante brooch, her present from her Mum and Dad.
In the WRNS during the war, stationed at HMS Sea Serpent, Chichester. My favourite picture of her, she looks so young and relaxed.Idiocy in Christchurch
I am so pissed off. It's a cold wet night in Christchurch. Got home, turned the new heat pump on - nothing. Odd lights flickering that shouldn't be, played with the remote until I came to the reluctant conclusion that the beastie is stuffed. Poked. Had it. Verkunft, verknoeked, verfallen. Vaffuncted.
Oh goody, I have bought a $3,000 lemon. If the sodding ECAN (our local environmental council of well-meaning busybodies) had allowed me to put in a logburner, I would be nice and warm by now. I would have a basic technology that would not break down. But no; logburners are verboten because they pollute the air, people die of asthma and emphysema from the "particulate emissions". In Europe, local councils are swinging back to woodburners; the fuel is from a sustainable source, and new stoves can be 99% efficient and emission free. But no; this is New Zealand and we are always 20 years behind the times. So instead of choking to death on "particulates" we can all die of hypothermia instead! I just love being cold. It makes me feel like I love everybody and everything.
The horrible irony of ECAN is that they have allowed some cowboy to dump dangerous demolition waste in the middle of the city, and authorized the operation of a crematorium in the same suburb. Locals didn't like the idea of a crematorium. They want cafes and smart shops. Do you really want to sip your latte while someone's Aunt Jemima goes up in smoke? asked one correspondent to the local paper. ECAN assured the populace that this would not happen. The crematorium would be so well operated that locals wouldn't even know it was there. Well, about a week ago a malfunction at the crematory resulted in a very large corpse being inadequately consumed; black smoke issued from the chimney, the locals were not impressed. The question is; if someone can burn bodies in my backyard (well almost) why the hell can't I burn wood? If someone can dump dangerous waste in my backyard why the hell can't have a logfire? Why are the rules different when a person is not a businessman, not a profit-making enterprise? Oh bugger, I am so, so angry.
Oh goody, I have bought a $3,000 lemon. If the sodding ECAN (our local environmental council of well-meaning busybodies) had allowed me to put in a logburner, I would be nice and warm by now. I would have a basic technology that would not break down. But no; logburners are verboten because they pollute the air, people die of asthma and emphysema from the "particulate emissions". In Europe, local councils are swinging back to woodburners; the fuel is from a sustainable source, and new stoves can be 99% efficient and emission free. But no; this is New Zealand and we are always 20 years behind the times. So instead of choking to death on "particulates" we can all die of hypothermia instead! I just love being cold. It makes me feel like I love everybody and everything.
The horrible irony of ECAN is that they have allowed some cowboy to dump dangerous demolition waste in the middle of the city, and authorized the operation of a crematorium in the same suburb. Locals didn't like the idea of a crematorium. They want cafes and smart shops. Do you really want to sip your latte while someone's Aunt Jemima goes up in smoke? asked one correspondent to the local paper. ECAN assured the populace that this would not happen. The crematorium would be so well operated that locals wouldn't even know it was there. Well, about a week ago a malfunction at the crematory resulted in a very large corpse being inadequately consumed; black smoke issued from the chimney, the locals were not impressed. The question is; if someone can burn bodies in my backyard (well almost) why the hell can't I burn wood? If someone can dump dangerous waste in my backyard why the hell can't have a logfire? Why are the rules different when a person is not a businessman, not a profit-making enterprise? Oh bugger, I am so, so angry.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Cabaret - Willkommen
The wonderfully creepy Joel Grey and the lovely Michael York. (OK youTube I get the message).
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Decadence in Christchurch
Driving to work this morning, I was passed by a somewhat aggressive driver. Swearing under my breath changed to laughter when I saw that his/her numberplate was DCK32. Does this mean that someone is CCK or CNT? I think so. Best of all, we've reached F in the registration sequence. This must mean that someone somewhere has FCK.
Now the Christchurch winter is all but here, the inhabitants have donned their habitual black, as if in mourning. You'd think people would want to jazz up their dress in this dark time, but no, black is winter de rigeur for the trendy office worker. With the ruined buildings, bare trees and dark clothing, Christchurch is starting to look like Berlin after the war; the Bridge of Remembrance is our Brandenburg gate, the steel barriers around the Red Zone our Wall.
Or perhaps more like Berlin in the Weimar Republic days. For under the darkness, people crave colour and novelty. Proof of this is that the gay bars are doing a roaring trade in Christchurch, apparently attracting so many straights that the gays are getting annoyed. No longer can you, a gay man, stride up to a pretty boy at the bar and grab his arse; he's probably straight and won't thank you. He's only here for the ambience and to show his girlfriend how liberal he is.
Personally, I've started to hum songs from Cabaret - wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome - and talk in broken German with a bad accent. ("Vere do you come from? A little spa town in Bavaaria called Bad Accent") And I'm starting to develop a fetish for things that lace up; corsets and black ankle boots with vicious heels. I love the steampunk look, all black and red (oh! those are Canterbury colours!) top hats and whips and strange gizmos in metal.
We've always had a reputation for being a dull city full of bourgeois worthy types. It's just not true; under our dark winter clothing we may wear red satin bustiers and jewelled and furred suspender belts.
And as a parting comment, and further proof of our descent into decadence, I've noticed some very styly women lately, well-cut, well-tailored garments but with something edgy about the whole ensemble, like thigh-high stockings or a studded choker, a kind of extremely wealthy dominatrix look - as if she does it for fun, not for the money. Anyone else notice this? Is this the universal human response to difficult times? Escape it all by embracing one's inner kinkiness? Is this the new "Christchurch Look?" Hope so.
Now the Christchurch winter is all but here, the inhabitants have donned their habitual black, as if in mourning. You'd think people would want to jazz up their dress in this dark time, but no, black is winter de rigeur for the trendy office worker. With the ruined buildings, bare trees and dark clothing, Christchurch is starting to look like Berlin after the war; the Bridge of Remembrance is our Brandenburg gate, the steel barriers around the Red Zone our Wall.
Or perhaps more like Berlin in the Weimar Republic days. For under the darkness, people crave colour and novelty. Proof of this is that the gay bars are doing a roaring trade in Christchurch, apparently attracting so many straights that the gays are getting annoyed. No longer can you, a gay man, stride up to a pretty boy at the bar and grab his arse; he's probably straight and won't thank you. He's only here for the ambience and to show his girlfriend how liberal he is.
Personally, I've started to hum songs from Cabaret - wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome - and talk in broken German with a bad accent. ("Vere do you come from? A little spa town in Bavaaria called Bad Accent") And I'm starting to develop a fetish for things that lace up; corsets and black ankle boots with vicious heels. I love the steampunk look, all black and red (oh! those are Canterbury colours!) top hats and whips and strange gizmos in metal.
We've always had a reputation for being a dull city full of bourgeois worthy types. It's just not true; under our dark winter clothing we may wear red satin bustiers and jewelled and furred suspender belts.
And as a parting comment, and further proof of our descent into decadence, I've noticed some very styly women lately, well-cut, well-tailored garments but with something edgy about the whole ensemble, like thigh-high stockings or a studded choker, a kind of extremely wealthy dominatrix look - as if she does it for fun, not for the money. Anyone else notice this? Is this the universal human response to difficult times? Escape it all by embracing one's inner kinkiness? Is this the new "Christchurch Look?" Hope so.
The IT Crowd - Series 3 - Episode 4: The Internet
I'm annoyed that youTube has stopped me embedding this, but follow it up - it's worth it. Love Richard Aoyade. Pity I can't spell his name right - Ayoade?. Saw him first as a shaman in The Mighty Boosh.
Looking back
I've just been looking through my oldest posts, when I began this blog in 2010 as part of a library training course in the "new" technology. It's fascinating how terrified I was! Stuff that now seems so second-nature seemed impossible then, lots of Oh my God, what if...s. But its not just me getting more savvy; I think the Internet in general has become more user-friendly, those who run and design sites have learnt a lot in two years about maximising interactivity, the whole psychology of how people use web sites and read screens. Its been a two-way street. The user and the used have learned from each other. We make the Web and the web makes us.
Some of the lessons I learned in 2010 are still very pertinent. Lesson 1 - learn to read the whole screen. One of the more insane of my customers the other day rang with a 10 minute rant about how bad our website was, because she couldn't find out whether the Botanic Gardens paddling pool was closed.
She'd "worked in public relations for fifteen years and never seen such a useless website" etc etc. She went on and on, and I just listened, saying nothing, until finally she tapered off in a sort of whimper, realising (hopefully) how very, very tiresome she was being. It gave me great satisfaction to point out that the information she so desired was in a sidebar! Har, har, har. Read the whole screen, dearie, and have a nice day.
Some of the lessons I learned in 2010 are still very pertinent. Lesson 1 - learn to read the whole screen. One of the more insane of my customers the other day rang with a 10 minute rant about how bad our website was, because she couldn't find out whether the Botanic Gardens paddling pool was closed.
She'd "worked in public relations for fifteen years and never seen such a useless website" etc etc. She went on and on, and I just listened, saying nothing, until finally she tapered off in a sort of whimper, realising (hopefully) how very, very tiresome she was being. It gave me great satisfaction to point out that the information she so desired was in a sidebar! Har, har, har. Read the whole screen, dearie, and have a nice day.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Camellia sasanqua
Autumn camellia sasanqua (not sure which one) growing by neighbours fence. Sasanquas have a fresh delicate scent, very distinctive, and are usually pink shades or white.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Benvenuto, Italia
Two people in Italy (or one person twice) are viewing my blog. Ti amo, Italia. Io ritorno prossima anno, con la grazia della Vergine. Ciao!
Winter pleasures
Now we're well into Deep Autumn in this part of the world. Great drifts of yellow leaves carpet the parks and gardens, and berries hang like bright beads against the grey skies. Walking through the Botanic Gardens yesterday, I saw three wood-pigeons stuffing themselves on the berries of an ornamental hawthorn, putting on much needed fat for the cold time ahead. The Paradise ducks have become more vocal lately, staking out winter territory on the city's waterways. Bellbirds have come down from the hills to take advantage of the additional shelter and food offered by the suburban environment, so we can enjoy their chiming calls at close range. Won't be long now before I start putting dripping out for the waxeyes, hanging it in a plastic net from the pear-tree where I can see the birds from the living room window. It's something to look forward to in winter. But there's more.
Talking with Jacqui this afternoon, and we were both fantasizing about other winter pleasures, namely winter puddings. Fruit crumble, apple cake, chocolate fudge pudding, sticky date pudding, ginger pudding, all the best comfort food. And roasts, casseroles, soups and stews, the lovely slow food that needs time to develop full and subtle flavour. And winter vegetables, pumpkin, kumara and yams and leeks and red onions, and potatoes in all forms, but especially as garlic mash.
In addition to great food, winter gives us a good excuse not to exercise. It's too cold, the days are short and wet, or a vicious wind is blowing. It can be pleasant to wrap up for a winter walk, but it's often pleasanter to stay inside, where you can mull wine, read, read, read to your hearts content, or watch all three extended DVDs in a marathon Lord of the Rings session.
Pull up the drawbridge and have an all day baking session, or plan the great garden you'll have next year.
Enjoy the first snow and hope for an extra day off, snowbound. If you're arty or crafty you can get into projects without being distracted by beautiful weather or the summer's ever-present need for lawnmowing. It's usually quieter in winter. Everyone is indoors; the noisy DIY types are less inclined to be DIYing ouside.
And you can sleep more. Afternoon naps save electricity, so you're doing your part at saving the planet, (don't feel guilty) or you could stay in bed till midday, because its just not worth getting up when the rain's pouring down and it's 10 degrees in the living room. You could even gasp! stay in your nightclothes all day because you don't want to expose your nakedness to the chill.
Sleep in your thermals and pretend you're stuck in a snowbound cabin in the back country, or that you're a papoose wrapped in a bear-skin in a Teepee on the Great Plains, watching sparks disappear into the night up the fire-hole. (This always sent me to sleep when I was a kid; I was convinced I was really a Sioux boy-child called Little Bear, and had somehow ended up with a dreary old couple in bourgeois New Zealand).
And watch for the first crocuses and Earlicheer narcissus. And Iris stylosa with its delicate scent. And wintersweet. And Camellia 'Yuletide' with its cheery yellow stamens and Father-Christmas- red petals.
So, winter is not all bad. In fact, it's really quite good.
Talking with Jacqui this afternoon, and we were both fantasizing about other winter pleasures, namely winter puddings. Fruit crumble, apple cake, chocolate fudge pudding, sticky date pudding, ginger pudding, all the best comfort food. And roasts, casseroles, soups and stews, the lovely slow food that needs time to develop full and subtle flavour. And winter vegetables, pumpkin, kumara and yams and leeks and red onions, and potatoes in all forms, but especially as garlic mash.
In addition to great food, winter gives us a good excuse not to exercise. It's too cold, the days are short and wet, or a vicious wind is blowing. It can be pleasant to wrap up for a winter walk, but it's often pleasanter to stay inside, where you can mull wine, read, read, read to your hearts content, or watch all three extended DVDs in a marathon Lord of the Rings session.
Pull up the drawbridge and have an all day baking session, or plan the great garden you'll have next year.
Enjoy the first snow and hope for an extra day off, snowbound. If you're arty or crafty you can get into projects without being distracted by beautiful weather or the summer's ever-present need for lawnmowing. It's usually quieter in winter. Everyone is indoors; the noisy DIY types are less inclined to be DIYing ouside.
And you can sleep more. Afternoon naps save electricity, so you're doing your part at saving the planet, (don't feel guilty) or you could stay in bed till midday, because its just not worth getting up when the rain's pouring down and it's 10 degrees in the living room. You could even gasp! stay in your nightclothes all day because you don't want to expose your nakedness to the chill.
Sleep in your thermals and pretend you're stuck in a snowbound cabin in the back country, or that you're a papoose wrapped in a bear-skin in a Teepee on the Great Plains, watching sparks disappear into the night up the fire-hole. (This always sent me to sleep when I was a kid; I was convinced I was really a Sioux boy-child called Little Bear, and had somehow ended up with a dreary old couple in bourgeois New Zealand).
And watch for the first crocuses and Earlicheer narcissus. And Iris stylosa with its delicate scent. And wintersweet. And Camellia 'Yuletide' with its cheery yellow stamens and Father-Christmas- red petals.
So, winter is not all bad. In fact, it's really quite good.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Bad cat
Thomas peed on my mattress this morning. At 4.00 I awoke to the dear little puddy tat making that scratching movement they make when they cover something up. Oh, he's just playing, I thought, he's trying to get into the bed. But why am I wet down my right side?... ...OH SHIT, you Evil Little Bastard, you've peed on the bed!!! Instantly, I'm wide awake and moving fast. I get up, strip the bed, and the wee is already down through the electric blanket into the mattress, so I take the blanket and sheets off, throw them into the bath, shift the mattress out into the hallway, peel my wet nightgear off and throw that into the bath and wash me. Fortunately I have another mattress that lives under the top one as its better for my aging back to have a thicker mattress, so at least I can go back to sleep. The electric blanket needed to be replaced this year anyway, so now push has come to shove so to speak. (Perhaps Tom saw it sparking in the dark and peed on it to put it out, thus saving my worthless human life. A sort of feline Rin-tin-tin. See, I'm trying to be charitable here). Now I have a large mattress in my very small hallway - it looks both eccentric and white-trashy, not quite the decor theme I was going for. I have to get the mattress cleaned now, I hope they don't think it was me that peed. I can see the 'yeah, right" look on the cleaner's face. ("My cat peed on the mattress". "Yeah, so you say")
Tom is toilet-trained, so why this happened I don't know. There is a poo/pee-tray in the laundry for his convenience. I suppose it was too cold out there or he couldn't be bothered to walk the whole 4 metres to the laundry. Hopefully he knows better now, but guess who won't be allowed on the bed again for a while. Shifting a mattress at four in the morning is not my idea of a sweet awakening.
Tom is toilet-trained, so why this happened I don't know. There is a poo/pee-tray in the laundry for his convenience. I suppose it was too cold out there or he couldn't be bothered to walk the whole 4 metres to the laundry. Hopefully he knows better now, but guess who won't be allowed on the bed again for a while. Shifting a mattress at four in the morning is not my idea of a sweet awakening.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
In French
And "Damn jam" translates into Confiture de Merde - shit jam! Or literally "jam of shit". Not quite what is meant. Perhaps a translate gadget might have repercussions we know not of.
Gadgets added - translate and fish
I've just added fish, just because they're pretty and come without an attached advertisment. And now you can translate my page into other languages. (Gadget right at the bottom of the page) Looks wonderful in Italian. "Fecking" remains fecking - it is not translatable!
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