Staring at the Ceiling

A Road Trip, Classic Kiwi Style

2009-06-29T20:33:00.007+12:00

Took the family on a road trip yesterday with some friends. Started off driving up a mountain:

Then I somehow managed to agree to haul 3 kids at once up a slope.

Found a mountain gnome...

Who treated us to a song and dance routine...

Before posing for photographs.

Then we went to Lake Taupo and messed about in a swimming pool as warm as a bath. Even the outside bit! In the middle of winter! Sliding down a snowy mountain before jumping into a pool warmed by the molten guts of the Earth is such a Kiwi thing to do.

The Flumes

There were waterslides at the pool. Actually I think they are called flumes. They are long curly tubes just big enough for screaming kids to slide down, or perhaps one large bloke who should know better.

I used to enjoy flumes. If you hold your body rigid, and try to hold everything off the surface of the tube except for your shoulder blades and heels, you can achieve very high speeds down them. I know this, because when I was younger I used to enjoy every opportunity I could to make the ride as fast as possible.

There were two flumes at this pool. With the confidence of a seasoned veteran, I chose the 'wild' one over the 'mild' one. Anyone with a Y chromosome will understand why.

On entering the flume, I was hit by a wave of familiarity and nostalgia. It must have been at least eighteen years since I last rode one, yet I knew exactly where I was. My body instinctively arched onto heels and shoulder blades, and I launched myself without trepidation into the, frankly, black hole. I had been here so many times before in so many swimming pools.

But that was when there was less of me, when gravity was something that could be negotiated with as a kind of active partner in fun. Either I am much heavier now, or Newton's laws of physics are more rigorously applied in this part of the world. I find either possibility hard to come to terms with.

Nevertheless, I thundered down that tube like a firework in a drainpipe. At one point the only thing in contact with the surface was my face. Despite what looks might suggest, it was not made for absorbing impact.

There is a pool of still water at the foot of such rides. It is designed as a sort of landing /disembarkation area for the flume riders. My landing managed to displace most of its contents in a monstrous wave, much to the concern of some small children standing by. I cared not. My arm was in agony, having been forcefully compressed against the side of the tube by my bodily inertia. Thank you twice, Mr Newton.

And so, you can imagine my reticence when my son, just turned three, points to the flumes with unquenchable enthusiasm and says, 'Slide Daddy? Slide? Ta!'

Knowing the right balance of risk to expose your children to is no easy thing. Too much, and they will hurt themselves and grow up afraid. Too little, and they will miss out on important opportunities and still grow up afraid. Isaac takes a lot in his stride. We are always wondering whether to encourage it or temper it.

Rightly or wrongly, I found myself at the top of the flume tower (after 3 flights of stairs) holding hands with a three year old boy. After the geothermal warmth of the pool, the wait in the short queue was freezing, and by the time we had got to the front we were both shivering. As mentioned before, the rides were dark - great holes into nothingness. As if to compensate for the lack of visibility, the noise is also considerable; every scream and shriek from the last two riders echos up the full length of the flume, amplified and distorted along the way. It reminded me of the kind of sound effects that might get played to the queue waiting to board a haunted house ride at a theme park.

To be honest I half expected Isaac to be in tears within seconds. I planned to ride the 'mild' slide with him on my lap (don't be fooled - the heel/shoulder blade technique nearly killed me on that one too), trying my best to slow things down. He would be sufficiently put off from his harrowing experience for us to retire to the safer areas of the pools and chill out with the more age appropriate distractions, without feeling like we've deprived him. I placed him between the gushing jets of water that fed the ride, hoping he wouldn't get swept away in the time it took for me to clamber in behind him.

As it turned out, he was hysterical on the way down, but not through fear. When we hit the landing pool at the bottom, his little body smashed into the water and he emerged dazed and spluttering. Before he even managed to stand and re-focus, he was pointing to the stairs. 'Again? Again?'

I have never heard him laugh so hard and for so long. As I write this, my throat is hoarse because we soon discovered it was even more fun to yell at the top of our voices all the way down. Before we left the pool we had riden the flume no less than 19 times. Such was the enjoyment that, even after a day on the ski slopes, a session in the pool and everything in between, his eager legs carried him up nearly sixty flights of stairs.

Needless to say, we will be doing that again.

The Blame Game

2009-06-07T15:36:00.008+12:00

It is tough to know how to view our current situation. I have been handed my notice at work, and as of 19th June, I look set to join the ranks of the unemployed.
It is not unexpected as a manager in the construction industry that I should be made redundant from time to time. In fact, since taking up my first managerial post six years ago, the wonder is that it has not happened before. The construction industry is brutally decisive.

The difference now is that, rather than simply stepping into another position and making my CV just that little bit longer, there is nothing. I have been looking with a very open mind for opportunities anywhere in NZ and at just about anything else construction-related in the English-speaking world. Few people are building, and those who are have an existing set of professionals already on the job who don't much fancy sharing.

I have always kept a close eye on what the media has to say about the global economy. The recession that everyone is going on about may be over by the end of the year, but it will take a lot longer than that to get everyone working again. Economic storm-clouds are here as a long-term fixture in our skies.

I had something of a epiphany when I walked outside my house today. It is difficult to capture the moment in a picture, but I will try anyway:

This is the view that greeted me on stepping out of my front door for a Sunday afternoon family walk.

I could go on about how I emerged from my house today in full health and with a full stomach. I could mention that neither my family or I were in any fear for our safety arising from the world around us or any of its inhabitants. I could use any of hundreds of illustrations that show how elevated we are in terms of our real prosperity in a global context. They would be true, but they would not support quite the point I'm after.

The truth is that in the depths of winter (in NZ, it has been one of the coldest Junes on record), I can go out of my house and see what you see in the picture: trees, sunshine, and the finer aspects of a suburban environment. I can see pretty much the same view as I type this in my office, looking just past my computer monitor. In the same field of view, I can chose to read tales of economic strife and impending doom, or I can refocus them on the world outside, which is still spinning and sunny. I can read the grim words of insightful men, or look at the world of a creative God.

I don't wish to belittle people who are facing hardships due to the current turn of world events; indeed we as a family will be tightening our belts and laying off the delicatessen and comfort shopping for a while to come. But it is worth remembering that for all the stuff that goes wrong in the world, the credit crisis is absolutely unique.

God gets blamed for an awful lot of stuff. I happen to hold the belief that I will get to meet him one day, and when I do, I will be asking him a few things myself. I will probably start with a few awkward questions about the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004, and then move on to some finger-shaking about the lost children of close friends. I dare say I will get a few difficult questions coming back my way too.

What I find interesting about the current crisis of the world economy is the context. New Zealand is a food-exporting nation which has just been through a bumper year of production. The copious rainfall, mixed with an abundance of sunshine has lead to a fantastic year of food crops, grazing for cattle, and wine production. As a nation which also relies upon hydro-electricity for much of its power, it also has stacks of energy potential held back by its dams. How much of this do you think is filtering through to the press?

The answer is, not much.

Instead, you hear an awful lot about the painfully-low price of milk solids (a major export here), or the fact that wine producers are considering dumping their huge surplus of stock for want of the right market conditions. You hear about how the price of electricity is artificially high and how we real should hold people accountable for it.

Around the world, there are conflicts, but they are fewer in number than at any time in over a decade. There are rumours of swine flue, but the actual numbers involved barely register when seen in a historical context, [EDIT: it would seem that a 'pandemic' is defined by rate and extent of spread rather than severity and sheer numbers. That'll teach me]. Natural disasters have caused local tragedy in Italy and South America, but the media-time devoted to these is minimal. The recurring theme in the media is the global economy, and for one very interesting point in history, we cannot blame its demise on war, pestilence, or any of the other stuff we normally blame God for. The 'Credit Crunch' kicked all this off, so for God's sake, where on Earth did it come from?

It's greed folks, pure and simple. To ask for credit is to ask for something unearned on a promise. To demand credit as part of a lifestyle is to demand something you don't need through no greater motive than greed. It is a human characteristic that has its origins in the Garden of Eden, and one that we have been perfecting ever since.

So, in a couple of weeks, I shall likely be signing on for benefits for the first time in my life. Though I am a casualty of this fallout of the general greed of all mankind, I will not be pointing many more fingers than I have already in this post. I will, however, be looking out for any finger-pointing from my fellow man, and seeing how we can possibly wriggle our way out of this one.

In this meantime, I will also be looking out of my window more, because the world out there is stunningly beautiful, and makes for very cheap entertainment. Speaking of stunningly beautiful...

The fashions of shouting at one's self

2009-04-18T22:25:00.009+12:00

I am playing more squash these days. In the last two weeks, I have been beaten by a twelve-year-old prodigy, and by another bloke old enough to be my father. Everyone needs a regular dose of humility.

I have been noticing a new vocabulary emerging on court. It is normal to hear grown men chastising themselves after fluffing a shot, and I have always wondered who’s benefit the outburst is for; are they really forgetting to use their unspoken, internal voice, or are they really just sending a signal to their opponent (and anyone else watching) that their current performance is not a worthy representation of the norm? Maybe they are disarming potential criticism by getting their own in first - after all, one thing worse than playing a lousy sequence of shots is the apparent acceptance (or worse still, ignorance) of that standard.

Whatever the reasons, I have noticed a number of people calling themselves ‘douche-bag’. I have assumed that this term requires a hyphen. I first heard it among the younger guys at my work and wrote it off as a passing fashion of youth culture. Those who know me will be aware of my strenuous indifference to fashion in all forms, and so, for some time it did not even register in my conscious thought. Then grown men of my generation started using the word, and meaning it; the squash court is not the place for the subtleties of irony. What was suddenly wrong with the good-old-fashioned four-letter tirade?

I have succumbed to my nerdy disposition, and investigated the etymology of the term. As I suspected from my time spent around Dutch-speakers, douche means to shower (or possibly to irrigate, in a surgical context), and therefore a douche-bag could either be a vessel for holding the water, or one of those little floral bags with the plasticy liner to hold all the bits and bobs you might wish to take into a shower. My mum always had one for packing in a suitcase, and to this day I can’t look at one without thinking about going on holiday.

What this has to do with incompetence I don’t know. It seems such a random and innocent term to feed into the outbursts of an angry subconscious. Unless it has become fashionable (and again, I wouldn’t know), to fill one’s shower bag with noxious or foolhardy things? But again, why?

I propose a new insult / term of self –depreciation. I will pioneer the use of the word loofah. If you do not know what this word means, then you are probably young - congratulations. It is an easy, two-syllable word which trips nicely of the tongue and, like douche-bag, has absolutely no relevance, whilst maintaining the same bathtime overtones. Use it. Mean it. Let it dominate your tough-talk. People won’t have a clue what you’re on about, and will therefore have no choice but to quail before your mastery of the underived insult.

Here is a picture of some ducks, for no reason I can fathom.

New Season, New Look

2009-04-09T22:54:00.004+12:00

Readers of old, if there are any left, might be pleased to know that this blog is about to once again become the standard repository for my musings and observations on the world. I have flirted with facebook, but find that it doesn't really work for me due to it being a largely social entity, and me being, well, not one.

For this reason, I have revamped my blog, complete with moody image of me trying to look sultry and intelligent. Visitors will note that there is still a space for posting comments should you wish to articulate your laughter in written form.

The title had to change, as I can no longer use the excuse of my mind being mothballed. The change in my work situation has created a rare opportunity for creativity, and yes, I am writing a book. I am writing many things actually, mostly just to see which fields I am strongest in. This is not a green light to critique my grammar or punctuation, and anyone wishing to do so should remember that, as well as being a sensitive sort, I am a large chap, and not the sort you'd want to provoke a creative paddy from.

And just in case there is any doubt, I will be shameless in posting family pictures here, and any others I can find, without explanation or relevance to the text. If you don't like the idea of random shots of two-year-olds doing monkey impressions, then this is not the place for you. As an example, here is a shot of me and the boy at our local hot air ballooning festival. So welcome, thanks for visiting and watch this space. I've no idea what I'm going to put here, or whether anyone will read it, but us scribes need an outlet. With the odds against getting a first publising deal roughly comparible with the statistics of lightening strikes, this might be as close as it gets. Deep breath now.

The Kiwi thing.

2007-10-17T20:09:00.000+13:00

It is interesting to be an Englishman in New Zealand right now. The poor (by All-Blacks standards) showing at the Rugby World Cup by the National team has put the nation into a sort of melancholic state. People don't even seen to be mentioning it that much.

A year and a half into our time in New Zealand, and I have not got around to summoning much interest in rugby yet. I still don't understand the rules, despite having had them explained to be by some very patient friends. I couldn't name any people in either the NZ or England squad. I still don't own a rugby top (unless you count the All Blacks one I accidentally picked up many years ago because 'it looked sturdy and I liked the colour').

Therefore, the fact that I am now somewhat interested in the result of the rugby world cup says a number of things about me.

1. I am obviously very shallow, previously claiming to have no interest (or even awareness ) of the world cup.
2. I have a sense of self preservation, wishing to know the perception of my national team so that I can act with due sensitivity in a rugby-obsessed foreign country.
3. I am obviously working too hard. The idea of spending an hour and a half with my feet up watching a game I don't understand is suddenly very appealing.
4. I am a frustrated psychologist, quite content to watch the emotional turmoil of those watching the game around me, whilst keeping only half an eye on the game.

There is still an element of 'I really don't care' about the way I look at the sport. Strangely though, this seems to have enhanced my enjoyment as I feel largely immune to the nervous tension. It's a bit like gambling with money that isn't yours.

As luck would have it, we are going away for a break this weekend. We will be visiting New Plymouth and staying in a villa overlooking the sea. One of our reasons for going is to see our good friends who have just moved down there. They are South African. I wonder what we'll talk about.

On a completely unrelated topic, we have just slipped a little deeper into the Kiwi culture by buying a new barbeque. Our old one was on its last legs through sheer frequency of use, so we felt justified in spending a few dollars on a proper one. The one we bought was also supplied with a minor scratch to the top of the hood, and by the much-celebrated English art of complaining, I managed to score an unbelievable amount of freebees to go with it. I never would have thought that there was a technique for cooking a chicken with a can of beer stuck up its bottom, much less that there was a purpose-made cooking utensil for it. But now I own one! Bring on the chickens!

This is the barbeque in its virgin state. This is the first meat on the barbeque.
This is the first meat 'seared' on the new barbeque.
This is the little boy who just couldn't wait for his Dad to stop mucking about with the new toy and get him some food.

The mountain

2007-09-14T22:50:00.001+12:00

Took the Isaac up a mountain a few days ago. I thought we were somewhat overdue for a mountain adventure, having been here 18 months and all. We strapped him to my back and attempted mount Pirongia. The boy is heavy!

Nevertheless, there is something very fulfilling about wandering through dense mountain forest with the family. We saw amazing native birds going about their business amongst huge native trees. There was not another soul on the track and not a man-made sound to be heard, except for my panting.

I have to remind myself that this kind of experience is right here. I would happily travel around the world to do this, but when it is less than an hour's drive away you tend to forget its there. Best of all, it is absolutely free. Note to self: the correlation between amount of money spent and time enjoyed is tenuous at best.

I entered a short story competition run by one of the national papers here. I wrote a daft comedy about a car crash (yes, it can be done), and it probably isn't what they're after. Having looked at the previous prize-winning entries, I note that they are far more artsy-fartsy than mine. Nevertheless, I've sent it in and will report on any progress. Unfortunately the final draft was only saved on a pen-drive, which has since died, so I hope to get some recognition if only to get the final manuscript back.

Discovery

2007-07-12T22:04:00.000+12:00

There is much that I should be posting about our trip to the UK. Unfortunately, time just doesn't allow in depth posting. Looking through the pictures though, there is a lovely series of my niece, Rosa. I couldn't help but title this post after her reaction.

And of course there were birthday cakes.
Isaac doing his chuckling thing. We took him to an ancient castle, but he was finding his shoe velcro so much more entertaining.

Coming to the UK

2007-04-30T21:48:00.000+12:00

Just in case anyone is still reading this, I thought it best to announce our little visit. We will be coming to the UK and staying between 8th and 23rd June. Hope to see as many people as possible then!

I thought I post some pictures of my son looking reflective. Just what you have to reflect on when you're 10 months old I don't know. He has been walking now for a couple of weeks. His record is five steps in a row, but we think he'd manage a whole lot more if he could control his excitement. His favourite passtimes are:

1. Dah! The game of Dah! is fairly simple in concept. It involves grabbing hold of anything and driving it excitedly and forcefully in a downward motion into anything else. At the point of impact, it is critically important to shout 'Dah!'. I have not worked out his scoring system yet, but there seems to be greater merit in selecting objects which either generate an agreeable impact sound, or those which contain delicate electronic components.
2. Hitting Daddy around the head with an empty coke bottle. Unfortunately, 'Daddy' taught him how to do this one, so there is no excuse. Saying 'ouch' appears to amplify the enjoyment for him.
3. Blowing raspberries. He attempts these when he sees a bare patch of skin on people he's close to. They are rather prolonged and quite soggy. Their utter hilarity is something of a danger, as he is prone to over-excitement and the occasional (accidental) bite.
4. Yanking down the fronts of tight-fitting / revealing women's attire. I really shouldn't find this one so funny, as a few respectable young ladies in the church have fallen victim to it. I am learning the art of sternly declaring 'No!' in spite of the inner chuckling.
5. Chasing girls. And we're not making it up - he does differentiate between the girls and the boys, and it is the girls who are good for chasing. Our church has an abundance of very cute little blond girls, and he is routinely surrounded by them. I am hoping he's not going to grow up thinking that's normal.

Not much to report appart from that. Church is good and slowly but surely growing. Jodi is doing a fine job at the reins of the creative side of stuff. Current musical influences include Israel Haughton, Vicky Beeching, Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix.

I'm still building (ever bigger) things. I am on my second church, and seem to be getting the knack. Our church is coming up to its first anniversary, and in the course of preparing all the material for public display, I am looking through all of the old photos and films. It is interesting to see how far we came, and how quickly.

I have discovered that I have lost the awareness of what might be considered newsworthy to people in the UK. I can no longer tell whether these ramblings from the other side of the world are interesting to anyone. If I am missing out on reporting things that might be of interest, then please leave a comment so that I can fill the gap. Any situation seems routine when you're in it everyday.

The Pool - Part Two

2007-02-02T18:38:00.000+13:00

In summary:

Solar panel built.
Warms up water.
Happy Isaac.
Everything okay in the world.

The Pool – Part One

2007-01-08T22:00:00.000+13:00

It gives me great delight to be able to tell you that it is getting very warm and sunny here in New Zealand. As such, I thought it would be really good fun to get Isaac a little paddling pool so that he could splash around, cool off, and generally get used to the idea of being in water.

Nothing unusual so far then. Perfectly normal behaviour for a father.

So, I depart to the paddling pool shop. Somewhere between my entering the shop and getting to the counter, my paddling pool requirements are somewhat revised from a small pool, to the biggest one I can get away with without having to re-landscape my garden. The thing is really big, but with the justification that I might have to get in it with him. And I am not exactly small.

This also, probably qualifies as normal behaviour. For a bloke, certainly.

So, I get the pool home, and start thinking it through. The pool will look great in the garden. I can also fill it from a very handy outside tap. Perfect. The trouble is, New Zealand air is wonderfully clear. The sun is bright, and the ozone layer around here is a little on the thin side. It could therefore be argued that putting a six-month old baby outside to play in water in direct sunlight is not too smart (the reflection on the water makes you burn more quickly than you would otherwise). I needed to shield him from the sun.

At this point there is a debatable best course of action. You could make use of some very good suncreams especially made for babies. These must be topped up regularly, and you have to be careful not to miss any bits when you rub it on. You can also buy little body suits (like childrens’ wetsuits) which look really cool, but they grow out of them quickly. A third option is to buy a large gazebo and entirely cover the pool and surrounding area.

Those who know me will not need to be told which option I went for. Those who don’t will be interested to note that the gazebo is heavy duty, specifically engineered for UV light reduction, and more than twice the cost of the paddling pool.

Jodi (my wife) says that this is borderline excessive behaviour.

So, I set things up. I inflate the pool with a pump, and fill it with an unbelievable quantity of water. I didn’t realise quite how much it would take. Jodi and I erect the gazebo and position it over the pool. We get Isaac’s little floaty ring-thing blown up and get him dressed in his special swimming nappies. The day is warm and sunny and everything is ready. In he goes:

He lasted about five minutes, showing initial apprehension which quickly turned to real distress. Five minutes! The problem: the pool is in the shade and is therefore stone cold.

At this point, some might have been tempted to pack the thing away until he gets a bit older. I however, am not prepared to accept defeat. In a land of abundant sunshine, there must be a solution which doesn’t involve getting sunburnt. At the next opportunity, I bought a whole load of pipes, pumps, wood and other stuff and shut myself away in the garage for a few days. The goal? A pool heating system powered by the sun! I am building a solar panel so that my boy can have a heated paddling pool.

Jodi says that this is way off the chart in terms of normal behaviour patterns. Interestingly, she says it without much in the way of surprise or concern. Rather, she says it with a kind of quiet resignation. I guess she doesn’t get the same kick from all the engineering potential as I do.

Anyway, this is the progress so far. Sadly, I have spent about twice as much on the solar panel as on the gazebo. However, it has been a right laugh, and a good chance to brush off my plumbing skills. I will post pictures of the finished article along with the results as soon as I have them.

Lisa's Visit

2007-01-02T12:52:00.000+13:00

Our mate Lisa came to visit us today as part of her NZ road trip.

Shame she couldn't stay for longer, but she and her friends have a lot on their schedule.

Who's next then?

Gruntiness

2006-12-13T20:22:00.000+13:00

Well it’s been a while since I last posted. I guess I’d better make this a good one.

Right now in New Zealand, things are heating up for the summer. Everything is warm, lush and green. The barbeque is in use on a very regular basis, and everyone is talking about getting away to the beach for a few days. Life is good.

Jodi is working hard on the church Christmas production. It culminates in a couple of performances this weekend. Whilst I am generally not keen on nativity-type things, this one does, bizarrely enough contain motorbikes, stock-brokers and just enough funky numbers to keep me as a muso happy. It’s also good to see the building used to its full extent as a production venue.

Isaac is a perpetual cuteness machine. He has developed a taste for young attractive blonde women and specifically turns on the charm whenever a certain young lady is in the room. Whilst I applaud his taste, I am concerned that the lady in question is about twenty years his senior and already spoken for. However, I cannot take him aside for a father/son talk about girls until we’ve taught him how to speak. This is not the sequence of learning I expected. Aside from this, he is very vocal and is clearly on the verge of crawling. I bought him a large paddling pool this week, and we look forward to posting pictures of his first experiences of swimming.

I have been working as Project Manager on the local University development for the last few months. Unfortunately, the budget for this has been reduced to about a third of the original sum, and so the work has become rather slow. I have therefore found work elsewhere, which I intend to start in January. This will take me back to a more construction-orientated role rather than the client-sided project management I have done recently.

Some of you will remember my friend Neil, who died at the beginning of the year. We had the pleasure of welcoming his wife, Anna, and his two boys, Joel and Simon into our home this weekend. They did not have time to do too much while they were here, but we managed to get to Rotorua to have a go on the louges. These are a little like the louges of Winter Olympic fame, except that they have wheels rather than runners, and you don’t have to wear tight lycra. Oh, and they have handlebars and brakes. And there’s no ice. So not really like the Winter Olympic louges at all then. But they are fast and dangerous, and therefore guaranteed to appeal to boys young and old alike.

I have bought a lawnmower. It is what New Zealanders would describe as ‘grunty’. I have worked out that the word ‘grunty’ is used to describe things that are made with a degree of ruggedness or power that comfortably exceeds the normal requirement. My bass amp, for example has about three times as much power as I actually require. This would be described as grunty. I also have a small selection of power tools that can comfortably tear through reinforced concrete. These too would fall nicely into the category of grunty. In fact, looking through the things I choose to buy or design, ‘grunty’ is a theme which seems to recur with some consistency.

So, back to the lawnmower. There is a curious culture here. The basic premise is that a Kiwi man needs a man’s lawnmower. There are other purchases that you can make which will have an effect on one’s perceived manliness, such as cars and tools and rugby balls, but none have quite the same potency as your lawnmower. It is as if the ability to mow down short lengths of grass with brutal power and speed is in some way linked to the very essence of your masculinity. This perception adheres to a set of rules, which prior to buying my own lawnmower, I was unaware of. The rules are very simple, and in some way indoctrinated into very kiwi from birth. They are ruthlessly enforced.

1. Your lawnmower should be big. If the size of your garden could even remotely allow the idea of purchasing a ride-on mower, then this is what you should buy. Otherwise buy the biggest you can push. Anything else means you are a wet and drippy mummy’s boy who should be wearing a dress.

2. Your lawnmower should contain as much metal as is physically possible. It should also have an excessively powerful engine about which you can hold suitable post-barbeque conversation. Such conversation should include the terms ‘horse-power’, ‘four-stroke’ and ‘torque’. Inability to hold such a conversation marks you out as a pant-wetting woosie who plays with dolls and eats tofu.

3. Under no circumstances should you ever entertain the idea of buying an electric lawnmower. If possible you should feign an ignorance of the very existence of any alternative to petrol-powered mowing equipment. Any proponents of electric power are to be instantly and forcefully derided as flouncy, frilly girlie-boys of the highest order, with highly dubious sexual orientation and a liking for subtiltled foreign films.

As luck would have it, my aforementioned predisposition towards all things inherently grunty led me to buy a mower which bestows a considerable amount of Kiwi kudos. On the day I brought it home, I had people admiring it on the driveway. In a land of hunting rifles, big trucks, beer and sheep farming, I am surprised that it should be lawnmowers that act as the markers for one’s masculine prowess. This is New Zealand however: a strange and beautiful place, where the humble lawnmower spans the gap between the earthy, dandelion-strewn realm of nature, and the shiny, metallic rumble of man’s ingenuity. Or something like that.

I could describe it in even greater poetic depth, but I don’t want to get a reputation as an artsy-fartsy nancy-boy who goes on about feelings and emotions and other pointless, incomprehensible girlie stuff. If it can’t be talked about in terms of gruntiness, then save your mouth for chewing steak.

Carrots

2006-10-14T15:00:00.000+13:00

…are just great!

Apparently.

I fed them to my son and I am beginning to think I have previously overlooked their merits. I never remember getting that excited about any vegetable. Comparable photos of me at this age are more chocolate-themed.

Shortly after this series was taken, he sneezed and I got tangoed.

Extreme office supplies.

2006-10-04T20:31:00.000+13:00

Okay folks – picture the scene. You have just returned to your office at work after a nice lunch break. You take a stretch, position yourself at you desk and prepare to get into an afternoon of going about your business quietly and diligently.

And then, suddenly, just as you are reaching for your in-tray, you happen to look out of the window and notice that the sky has been torn asunder, and fiery red clouds are spewing forth boiling toxic sulphurous death from above. The tortured land heaves, groans and ruptures, unleashing hordes of huge, monstrously deformed creatures bent on chaos and destruction. A quick check on the internet tells you that around the world, governments are toppling and that credit cards are getting replaced by a strange forehead tattoo (ever so slightly resembling the face of Bill Gates). Realisation dawns, and your worst fears are confirmed: the Apocalypse is here!

In a tricky situation, faced with social collapse, nuclear Armageddon, and demonic forces reeking mass devastation, your thoughts are naturally going to turn to the obvious: how do I keep my desk stationery in proper order in these turbulant times?

You see most desk management systems are known to fall apart in even the lightest of nuclear exchanges. There hasn’t been much research into how they would fair in the event of a demonic rampage, or highly sulphurous situation, but I think it is fair to say that your chances of keeping your pens and pencils in any sort of order would be low. The fact of the matter is that there is nothing on the market to accommodate the needs of the desk bound, stationery-using professional in the event of extreme circumstances.

You will be relieved to know that I have addressed this small, but important gap in the market for extreme desk management. Using the thickest composites, the strongest steel tubing, and the highest-performing industry adhesives, I give you the cutting edge in heavy duty stationery compartmentation and access facilitation. Lesser minds might call it a pen tidy.

An early prototype. Note the heavy use of scaffold tubing.

The finished article after the application of the special brimstone-retardant paint.

All change

2006-09-28T17:34:00.001+12:00

I start work again on Monday, having had three weeks off. My parents have visited, had a great time, and have now returned home. Seems strange to have waited for so long for their visit, only for it to flash past and be over. Anyway, we have a picture of the male family line as it now stands. Hurrah for the Y chromosome!

Mum also got some time with the little one.

We are educating him in the wondrous delights of chocolate cake. I show it to him, and then eat it, giving him a detailed breakdown of exactly how good it is. The urban camouflage bandana is so that CIA satellites can’t look down and track his position. We are pretty sure that the CIA has no real interest in Isaac – but then again, maybe that’s just what they want us to believe.

When I change his nappy, cool fresh air get to parts of his body that aren’t used to being exposed to cool, fresh air. This triggers what I call the fountain phenomenon, which as it happens, usually occurs just after I have cleaned him up, but before I have had a chance to apply a fresh nappy. Although my son does not know his numbers yet, I swear he has a good working knowledge of aim, trajectory, and parabolic weeing. In a split second, he can soak through everything he is wearing, as well as the mat I am changing him on. When he does so, this is usually the look he gives me.

I have been making furniture this week. Isaac now has a bookshelf, and Jodi and I have at last got bedside cabinets. I have also decided that I might make myself a brand new desk tidy. I am sick of the ones made from pathetic little plastic tubes. Mine will be made from heavy-duty steel scaffold tubes. It will resemble something that you can either store your pens in, or launch mortars from. A real man’s pen tidy! This is of course for no other reason than the fact that I can.

So, that was the holiday time. I start work again on Monday – working for a large project management company. Someone in their infinite wisdom has decided to get me running a $54 million project. This though doesn’t scare me half as much as the prospect of having to iron shirts again. They tell me that I will be sharing an office with the client’s senior people. Wait ‘till they get a load of me and my new pen tidy!

Almost done

2006-09-08T14:43:00.000+12:00

Any of you who watch the Extreme Home Makeover programmes will be familiar with the kind of time that I have had recently. On the 17^th and 20^th August, we had opening services at the new church to which local dignitaries and the NZ Elim top brass were invited. At the start of the same week, we still had walls to build and carpet to install.

To give you the short version, the building opened with minutes to spare. Paint was still dubiously tacky in places, and the smell of carpet solvent was fresh in the air, but the official opening of the building was heralded by a professional-looking service. We managed to get the lighting commissioned just in time, so that the dancers, musicians, speakers and mime artist (yes, Steve Murry was there, and blew everyone away) were lit in full theatrical splendour.

Since then, we have had a slightly quieter time of it. The smaller, less significant jobs have been finished off and aside from a few small areas, we are done. The church must now consolidate its position, recover financially, and plan out where it wants to go next.

This quieter period has allowed me to go off job hunting. After a few enquires, I managed to get some interviews with professional project management companies, and before long some offers started rolling in. The one I have accepted starts on 2ⁿ^d October and will see me redeveloping the local polytechnic university here.

The timing of everything continues to be amazing. I finish my work for the Elim church here today and start to use the annual leave that I have accrued. Also today, my parents arrive from the UK for two weeks. The last time Jodi and I had real time off was when we first arrived here and we were franticly trying to get ourselves established. It should be a whole lot more enjoyable this time.

So, today is my last day as a member of the church staff. The fact that I have been a full-time member of the church staff for the last seven months has only really just dawned on me. My focus has been on getting the church built, and everything else has been someone else’s concern. I am now wondering whether I should be using my last day of employment here doing something unbelievably spiritual to make up for my months of focusing on the purely tangible. On the other hand, the fact that I wouldn’t know where to start with that sort of thing is probably another good reason why my time has come to an end here. I have brought a specific set of skills to a church that needed them for a while, and now I must make way for new staff who can meet the new needs of the church in ways that I cannot.

It kind of puts me in mind of the Saturday afternoon wrestling programmes that I used to watch as a kid. The best matches were always the tag team bouts that involved contestants hurling themselves at each other to the point of exhaustion, only for one of them to tag a teammate who would bound into the ring full of energy and finish the job (especially if the teammate in question was Big Daddy). The trick was getting the timing right so that the freshly tagged wrestler could finish off the tired opponent before he had a chance to tag his own partner. Unless of course the opponent was Giant Haystacks, as he was too big and mean to need a partner.

Who would have thought that 1980s Saturday afternoon TV wrestling would lend something to the strategic staffing decisions of my current church? But here we are: I leave full-time ministry just as Jodi is offered a part-time position as the Director of Creative Ministries in the same church. I build the place: she becomes responsible for a lot of what goes on within it. ‘Tagged’

I just hope I got it right.

The little one is doing well. His hobbies are raspberries (on the tummy), punching Nigel (his toy giraffe) sneezing (in the style of Donald Duck) and of course feeding. His musical tastes include Mozart, Miles Davis and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

I will finish off with a selection of photos from the new building. If you would like a church built in similar style, please leave your comment. All locations worldwide considered.

The main auditorium holds 350 - 400 seats. The ceiling raft is an exposed grid made from scaffold tubes. Everything on the grid including lights, sound, and AV equipment is fully accessable and can be moved to any other location as required. It currently holds a spectacular array of theatre lights, thanks mostly to my mate Tim. In fact, a lot of the stuff in this new building is thanks to my mate Tim. Thanks Tim.

The foyer has an all-metalic staircase. This was the one real architectural extravagance. It goes on to form an open landing from which you can access the first floor offices.

I played around a lot with the design of the stage. It always bothered me that they tend to waste a lot of space. Therefore this one has the monitors and subs (big speakers) built into it. It means that those on the stage can do without all of those big black wedge-shaped objects that normally get in the way. The rear of the stage has a trench on which all of the power points and plugs are located. This keeps the leads on stage to a minimum. The front of the stage opens via a series of large flaps. Then you can access some very large trolleys (1.2 x 3.6 metre) on which you can store PA equipment, archived files, or heretics out of sight.

Dedicated

2006-07-23T16:44:00.000+12:00

Isaac was dedicated today. We timed it to coincide with Jodi's parents visiting us. To my knowledge, his dedication was the first in the new building. I was strangely proud of his impeccable behaviour, whilst simultaneously disappointed that he didn't take the opportunity to either puke or fart on Mike, our minister. This is probably the result of my new found feelings of responsibility in some deep internal conflict with my profound appreciation of the inappropriate.
It was great to have some family there for this kind of thing. People were amazed at how good Mary (my mother in law) looks for her age. I replied that is was due to all the cosmetic surgery she's been through.

We had a 'pot luck' lunch after the service. This is a bit like a bring and share, but without the organisation. We thought we would take some family shots outside the house.

Isaac takes after me in many ways, and I can see their point. They also say that he takes after Jodi. I'm not so sure about this because I let him have a go on her trumpet and he was rubbish at it. Anyway, everyone agrees that he has my frown. I could not work out what little babies have to frown so much about. All they really have to think about is feeding, and filling nappies. Then I found that if you think about nappies with enough intensity, then you will end up frowning too. Try it yourself at home or at work. People around you won't mind.

More Pictures

2006-07-04T18:10:00.000+12:00

Sorry, but I just haven't had time to update this thing recently. By popular demand however, here are some more pictures.

A visit to the beach.

Isaac

2006-06-17T22:08:00.000+12:00

This is the name of my son.

I'm too tired to write much, so I'll stick to a few stats and photos.

Born: 16/06/06 at 12:04 hrs
Birthweight: 10Ibs
Method: C-Section

There were friends ready to meet him.

I think he likes me.

Jodi is a natural.

The Axe Under The Shed

2006-06-11T18:53:00.000+12:00

The baby is now due. In fact it’s overdue by a couple of days. This is really exciting, and I am looking forward to becoming a Dad. I am already becoming acquainted with my offspring through playing gentle prodding games with Jodi’s belly. This does tend to get the thing moving, but not as well as blowing raspberries.

It has suddenly dawned on me that I could be a Dad in a matter of hours. Aside from checking off all of the practical issues I have to deal with in that time, I have also been spending time thinking about the sudden hike in responsibility and the fact that there would be no going back from this point on. I thought about the idea of being a principle role model and massive formative influence in the life of one fragile, moldable and potential packed little life. I thought about how I might need to brush up on my table manners and start eating vegetables. I thought about nappies. I thought quite a lot about nappies. They are like a big, smelly, extra-absorbent doom coming my way.

So, life is about to change. A new chapter is about to begin. The things in life that I look back on with fond memories and a mischievous grin are now the things that I must chastise my children for. In order to be able to embark upon this new adventure with a clear conscience, I must document a dark and sordid tale that has kept my own father guessing for years. One day when I was about fifteen, he found an axe hidden under the garden shed. I admitted responsibility for this misplacement, but would not disclose why.

Apart from the axe, there was no evidence of foul play. Teenage high-jinx is traditionally accompanied by broken windows, personal injury or visits from the local constabulary. Not so with the axe. It was simply hidden under the shed rather than hung up inside it. Theoretically this should not have been a big deal. But an axe is a funny thing, carrying as it does certain sinister connotations as soon as its use falls outside the ordinary. The ‘theoretical’ part prevented my Dad from getting too angry about the whole thing, but his curiosity has gnawed at him ever since. Sorry Dad. I’m sure your grandchildren will exact revenge on your behalf some day.

Some stories should told. Some should never be told. Some should only be told once enough time and distance has passed between the lead characters. Now that I am fairly comfortably outside the grip of UK law, I would say that the following story falls into the third category. Hold tight.

I grew up in Braintree. I went to school in Chelmsford, 10 miles away. This resulted in my having two sets of friends in separate worlds that only occasionally overlapped. At the age of fifteen, both sets were of an age where girls were very much a focal point of discussion, speculation and unrealistic ambition.

Some guys from school proved this one day when they had the bright idea of convincing some girls from Braintree to go camping with them one night. Their strategy was simple: pitch a tent in a small field right beside a graveyard on a dark and windy night. They would then tell some slightly scary stories, and wait for the girls to develop a desperate need for the comforting embrace of a manly fifteen year old adolescent.

Fifteen year old boys are not noted for their intelligence. Yet this plan was lame even by my own limited reckoning of the time. My own interest in girls was a few years behind that of my peers, but my understanding of basic psychology was a little too sharp for my own good. As a result, my contempt for the pathetic little rouse of my classmates met with a little urge to have some fun. When my local friends discovered that the graveyard in question was the one right behind our houses, they were of the same mind. A plot was hatched.

In the days before playstations and child protection policies, it was the norm to grow up playing in amongst the trees and fields around your house. Many of the games we played involved concepts unfamiliar to today’s children. We ran, we hurdled fences, we swung across rivers on ropes, we tried to evade and catch each other, we climbed trees, lit fires and hurt ourselves. It was good wholesome fun. We also got so familiar with our surroundings that we could navigate the area within a 1 mile radius of our homes with our eyes practically shut. Perhaps more usefully, we could navigate in the dark. At speed.

And so, on the night in question, we quickly located the tent and took our positions around it.

Our idea was not sophisticated, but we knew the importance of subtlety. We were well past the stage of sneaking around outside the tent making spooky ghost noises. Our imaginations demanded something a little more involved. We knew the importance of waiting until 3am before even trying anything. We knew how to create the ambiguous illusion that ‘something’s out there, but it could be just the wind’. We knew how to wait and let fear subside to the point were it is dismissed as an overactive imagination. Then we would begin again: a broken twig here; a suppressed whimper there; movement in the trees just out of sight. Our efforts were rewarded by hushed sounds of growing panic in the tent.

We grew up playing by the cemetery and it held no fear for us. The same could not be said for our guests. It took a long time for them to venture from their tent and search their surroundings with their inadequate torches. For a while we waited, allowing the mossy gravestones and turbulent night to set the scene for us. Their imaginations seemed to do the rest. We caught snippets of their conversation carried on the wind and we heard mention of wild animals, mentally unstable farmers and people buried alive in the cemetery. If only we’d thought of that. We remained hidden and allowed the night to do its work.

But such subtlety never lasts for long when you’re fifteen. Pretty soon our need for drama and adrenaline got the better of us. I am not entirely sure how it escalated but today I have an enduring memory of running through a graveyard at 4am one morning, pursuing one of my friends whilst whirling my Dad’s axe around my head and cackling maniacally. I also remember stopping myself for just long enough to make a mental note of the fact that ‘this is not actually normal behaviour’, before resuming the chase.

We caught the two guys who had bolted from the campsite. They were in a bit of a state and took a while to calm down. Strangely enough though, once they recognised us and understood that we only intended psychological harm, they were only too eager to play along and add to the misery of the two guys who were left (apparently peeing their pants) in the tent. By their account, the girls weren’t all that bothered, and were certainly a long way from throwing themselves at the boys in a fit of terror-induced passion. Funny that.

And so the two escapees played along, making desperate and over-dramatic gurgling noises from the bushes before falling silent and withdrawing. The effect was enhanced with the aid of my friend, who with substantial foresight had gone to the butchers the day before to ask for a bagfull of mixed offal. Just enough of this was left outside the campsite to suggest the kind of massacre that Hollywood could use Anthony Hopkins to retell.

I returned home just as the birds were starting to sing. Not wishing to risk waking my parents by rummaging around in the house to find the key to the shed, I removed one of the bricks at the base of the shed and hid the axe beneath it. It was then forgotten about until Dad found it a couple of months later. Unfortunately I was not quick enough to think up a convincing story to explain this anomaly, so used my right to remain silent.

Now children, staging horrific events in graveyards in the early hours of the morning is neither big nor clever. A few years later, I undertook some training in criminal law and actually worked out how many times over I could have been arrested that night. It was quite a few. It was also in an age before the proliferation of mobile phones, else we doubtless would have had a far more complex situation on our hands. Yet given that all teenagers will inevitably engage in some kind of behaviour that is spectacularly irresponsible, I am pleased to say that mine did not give rise to any property damage or personal injury. Naturally though, I cannot account for any lasting psychological effects.

My own children will not become involved in such events. They will not need to because, from a young age, they will be brought up to act responsibly at all times. Jodi and I have discussed this, and we know that we have a system of discipline that is flawless and absolutely effective for bringing up children who simply aren’t naughty. They will be courteous and pleasing, and Jodi and I will always agree on the correct course of action for their continued development.

We may only have a few hours left to enjoy this delusion. Please don’t spoil it for us.

Any time now.

2006-05-22T19:43:00.000+12:00

We went to see the midwife last week. She said that the baby could come at any time from now and would be considered full term.

I am getting impatient. I see the thing moving inside Jodi and causing her discomfort, and I wonder if it wouldn’t just be better if it just hurried up and got out. The sooner it does, the sooner I can play with it and teach it how to do all kinds of neat and marginally irresponsible stuff.

I have been thinking rather a lot about what it must be like in the womb. My memory of the experience is a bit foggy, so I am really only guessing. Nevertheless, I have made a list of pros and cons. You may like to add your own.

Pros.

It is nice and warm.

You have food and drink on tap. You don’t even have to bother chewing it: it is delivered straight to your stomach.

Putting on weight is considered beneficial.

You don’t have to do much. You can sleep as often and as long as you want.

You have round the clock security, courtesy of someone up to 20 times the size of you.

You can pick your nose (once you have grown the pre-requisite fingers and nostrils) as much as you like and nobody minds.

You can hold your breath indefinitely.

Just for a laugh, you can flail your arms and legs around wildly and cause someone to pee their pants.

Cons.

The squelching and gurgling of gastric juices becomes the soundtrack to your life.

There’s not much to do in there.

You spend a lot of the time upside down. Any attempt to correct this gets you labelled as a ‘breach’ and marks you out as a bit of a deviant.

It’s pretty cramped in there. The foetal position is all well and good, but it would be nice to have some choice.

After spending months growing ears, the only music on offer is a very muffled version of your mum’s favourites.

You spend 9 months making a place your own, only to be evicted suddenly, never to return.

Reconnected

2006-04-30T21:10:00.000+12:00

Yesterday I got back online. Hurrah! At the moment it is only dial-up, but I expect to be upgraded to broadband sometime in the next two weeks. Hopefully this will be the start of some more regular updates. Tomorrow I will send some CD roms back to the

. We will see how long the information contained on them takes to get into general circulation. There is too much news regarding the new church building project to really post much on here. I will let that information get to people as and when.

I have three other pieces of news:

1. My wife sang in church today. She was great. She also played her flugelhorn for a bit, but found it hard. Apparently it is all to do with pregnancy and diaphragms and pressure and stuff. She did go into more detail, but it all sounded a bit squishy to me so I changed the subject. Anyway, here’s a shot of her with some of our chums. I have to say that the church is blessed generally with some serious musical talent.

2. I have a new bass amp. It cost a lot and is very loud. In other words, it is everything you could want in a bass amp. The lights also shine rather pleasingly, and the knobs are suitably shiny and go all the way up to number 12.

3. We have a new email address. If you would like it, and have not received our notification via email already, then you can get it via the lovely Miss Tween, who will vet your suitability to be privileged with such information, and bestow it accordingly.

Rapid Update

2006-04-16T17:37:00.000+12:00

I am sitting in the lounge of a friend here making a long overdue update. Apologies. I cannot update much because I am being fairly antisocial just writing this. Therefore it's just bullet points and a few photos.

House: Bought. Big. Empty. We took possession on Thursday 13th, and appart from a couple of appliances, there is nothing there. We are waiting for our possessions to clear the official channels. Hopefully this will be sometime next week and we can move in.

Job: Busy. I am currently running a full building programme with drawings that are still on 'preliminary' stage. Anyone with a knowledge of construction management will know that this is hardly advisible, but the whole project is being run in a fairly unconventional style. I did make a short video this week, which I have to find some way of getting to Tom Duckers for general consumption for the church. I fear that by the time it gets to you fully edited, it may be a little out of date. If anyone knows of a way to transfer a 200MB file around the world without posting CD roms, let me know.

Jodi: Textbook pregnancy so far. 33 weeks on Wednesday. She is getting more involved with the church, being selected for the committee of the womens' ministry 'Girlfriends' (yes that really is the name of it). People are starting to pick up on the fact that she is pretty switched on musically, and are using her accordingly.

Sorry folks that's it for now. Isn't it a shame that now I have more to write about, I have so little time to write. Give us a couple of weeks, and I should be able to get back on my own computer.

Posting frenzy

2006-03-08T11:03:00.000+13:00

I finally have the opportunity to update this blog. I honestly never thought I’d miss being connected so much. There is so much to write about now that I am not sure where to start. However, there seem to be three main areas that people are interested in, so I thought I put them into three separate posts: Life, Work and Baby. So stop reading for a moment, go and get yourself a drink and make yourself comfortable, because (depending on your level of interest) this could take a while.

Life

2006-03-08T11:02:00.000+13:00

Life is full of points of reference that we take for granted. Things that pass through our day to day lives are like wallpaper serving as a background for all the more interesting stuff that we are more likely to remember. Take for instance the humble can of baked beans. I tend to buy the slightly cheaper supermarket brands because, to be honest I’m a bit of a cheapskate. However, thanks to a lifetime of intellectual bludgeoning from the media, whenever I hear the words ‘baked beans’, I think Heinz. After all (and sing along if you wish) Beanz Meanz Heinz. Not exciting I’ll admit, but nevertheless, a universal constant which can doubtless conjure memories for so many of us of our first culinary experiments, and beyond into our student days of tin-can cuisine.

Over here, beans, ketchup, and other cherished elements of the British diet are made in just the same way, with identical labeling, logos and container shapes. The difference is that the company behind them is called Watties. I kid you not.

If the idea of 57 Watties varieties shakes the foundations of your known universe, then you are not alone. So it is out here in NZ with so many little fragments of everyday life. You see things that you think you understand fully because they are just the same as ‘back home’ (not sure what the phrase means these days), and just when you think you’re safe, a minor difference crops up and makes you wonder whether you really know anything.

And so it is with so many things in NZ. People speak the same language but with one or two exceptions that are just enough to potentially get you into trouble in polite company. People drive on the left and observe exactly the same signs and road rules that you’re used to, with just one or two minor differences that will kill you if you are ever dumb enough to relax in the assurance that you got it sussed. As I said in a previous post, we go to a church were many of the main players are frighteningly similar in character to those in Chelmsford Elim. They face the same issues: old people wanting the sound turned down; a shortage of volunteers for childrens’ work; a need for a new building; how to balance the little cups in the communion tray so that you can appear relaxed and spiritual passing it to your neighbour, when all you really want is to get rid of the darn thing so that you’re not the one to spill it. You get the idea.

It’s kind of like Planet of the Apes, Christian style (although our new friends aren’t quite that hostile or hairy). There’s a definite parallel universe feel to the whole experience.

That said, it has been very positive. We have had a few panic attacks where we wonder what we have done and where to find the rewind button on our lives, but these are becoming less and less frequent as time passes. The whole thing about losing all of your points of reference, is that you can make new ones, and in doing so challenge old and crusty ‘known’ facts about the way you think the world works. One or two things are now feeling familiar, even after our short time here.

We are making new friends here at a blistering pace. There is a danger of relating to people in a somewhat superficial manner when you move this fast, but we are aware of it and I think that those around us are too. We have quickly realised that we are not the only people called from far and wide to come and form part of the church here. Our story was greeted with knowing smiles from many in the church who see the pattern emerging, and like us, can’t wait to find out why. There are young, professional and gifted people descending on this place, for no clearer reasons than our own. We joined a home group here for young marrieds when we first arrived. That home group has now become too large and has therefore split in two. We are now considered veterans in the new home group (only one couple has been there longer). We have been here a month.

Naturally we have related well to the musicians. Jodi and I have been to the rehearsals and will probably play on Saturday for the first time. Strangely enough it will be for a Womens’ conference. They don’t have any female bass players or drummers, so they asked me. Sound familiar anyone? Roll on all the old dressing up in drag jokes.

We have bought a house. We move in on 13^th April. This should correspond well with when our stuff should arrive. The place is far bigger than what we’re used to and has 3 (count em) toilets and 4 bedrooms, one of which is in its own self-contained area. The place is perfect for when parents / friends come to stay and it means that guests can get just as involved in the whole new baby thing as they like. We will also have a dishwasher! Oh, and air conditioning! Double garage! Fluffy toy! Really. I kid you not.

We will also be within a short walk of one of the best schools in Hamilton, a large new shopping complex and some very nice parkland. Even given the difference in house prices over here, we should not have been able to afford all of this.

The new house is also within a 5 minute drive of a rather interesting new acquisition of the church – which leads me rather nicely onto my next post…..

Work

2006-03-08T11:00:00.000+13:00

Now here’s where it gets interesting. I secured my Visa on the basis of a guy offering me a job here. The guy in question is called Lex, and he is an experienced quantity surveyor with an established and successful business over here. The visa requires me to work with him (or find an equivalent position with a comparable skill requirement) for no less than 3 months.

So far so good. Trouble is that when I got here and spoke to Lex, he very apologetically explained to me that, in much the same way as I was called to NZ, he was being called to Mexico to go and use his skills in a missionary capacity. He would be leaving at the end of March.

It is fair to say that this was the first apparent setback in a story that has otherwise been an object lesson in divine providence. I also came to learn that I would not be the only one missing out due to the fact that Lex was going. He is also a major player in church affairs, advising on and influencing the course of some of the more radical aspirations of the church.

The contract of employment that I signed was formed as a result of a five-minute chat that I had with Lex back in May. As a result it was fairly arduous and massively stacked in favour of Lex’s company. This is not unreasonable. If I ran a company that was asked to employ someone on such sketchy foundations, I would want the odds in my favour too. The plan was to work through my 3 months before either re-negotioating the contract, or finding something completely different. Whilst I was confident that we were supposed to be in NZ, I was still at something of a loss as to why, and I was quietly hoping that I was going to find out during my 3 month stint with Lex. I could not imagine being sent 12,000 miles around the world to be doing the same old thing I was doing in the UK.

So we have been in a strange situation, buying a car, house, setting ourselves up here with financial and social arrangements. All the while we have been without any firm prospects of income and uncertain as to whether we could satisfy the requirements of the visa and remain in the country. I would love to claim that our faith was such that this did not concern us. However, it has become evident that my skills in construction are in high demand here and I could walk into a job very easily. Faith struggles to thrive when back-up plans are so easy to come by.

Nevertheless, I have not been looking for work like a good, responsible prospective father should. I have been daring God to come and get me on this issue. I have been doing work for the last few years which has been, frankly, less than taxing, and my limited prayer-time has been full of complaints about the issue. I have no desire to while out my working years in an office or a grubby site-hut, building stuff that increases the wealth of those who have already proved their point. I’ll do it if I have to, but summoning any level of interest would become the main challenge of my life.

There is a dubious wisdom behind taunting God. On one level it smacks of disrespect and irreverence. On another, when you taunt someone you automatically assume that they have the means, or rather the power to do something decisive. It is a given, and the issue changes from one of ‘can you?’ to ‘will you then?’. While we are unwittingly goading God we are exhibiting a kind of crude faith which is often just enough to get things moving. It’s like playing chicken on a spiritual level.

I could go into all of the ins and outs of how it happened, but it would just be padding. The radical aspirations of the church that I mentioned include a significant building programme that includes 4 phases and several million dollars. One of the phases is an entirely new purpose built church that is currently at design stage. I have been asked to run the building programme for the church.

Naturally, we (as a church) are completely up against it in terms of time and money. Theoretically, what the church is proposing cannot be done and I would not normally go near it out of shear common sense. The first phase is to convert an existing warehouse into a fully functioning church. The church moves in in 11 weeks. Added to that the fact that the role I am being asked to play is one that raises the stakes substantially over the projects I am used to running. I took some convincing that I was professionally capable, and even now I am not sure. Apart from anything else, I would be spending the money of faithful church-givers rather than large profit-driven companies. The weight of this responsibility has not escaped my attention.

But in the light of all that’s happened recently, it does seem to make sense. After all, messing with the accepted boundaries of possibility is becoming a bit of a theme for us at the moment. People used to ask me what I did for a living, and I would steer the subject in a different direction for fear of boring them. It would be a source of great peace to me and potential witness to others if I could simply say ‘I build churches’.

Baby

2006-03-08T10:58:00.000+13:00

I cannot work out whether I am just remarkably chilled about the whole baby thing, or whether I am in denial. Either way, the thing is growing. And kicking.

NZ has some truly fantastic healthcare provisions for giving birth. We have a midwife, Jo, who will be with us now until after the baby is born. In NZ you get to interview your midwife and select the one that is right for you. She then stays with you unless you change your mind. It means you can match your own philosophy on giving birth to a suitably sympathetic midwife. The spectrum ranges from scalpel-happy caesarian-and- drugs zealots to those who would have you give birth in a forest, surrounded by waterfalls and good karma. We liked Jo because she seemed friendly and confident, and shared our approach of ‘we like it natural, but let’s not go nuts’.

We have had a tour of the birthing centre. These are big in NZ and they resemble a very clean and spacious hotel. They have some medical gear to help things along, but are generally intended for fairly smooth deliveries. If things get hairy, it is a 3 minute ambulance ride to one of the largest hospitals in the Southern Hemisphere.

The idea is that the midwife runs the show in the birthing centre according to a pre-arranged plan. The plan is amazingly open. Aside from the different birthing options (water births are big here), you can specify exactly how you want things to happen. The husband can, (if wanted) essentially deliver the baby himself, under the watchful eye of the midwife. You can have friends/family come to watch (why you’d want this I don’t know) and you can chose what music you listen to during labour. At the moment we quite like the idea of bringing our child into the world to the sound of Miles Davis. As with anything else though, you can change this at the time if you want.

In terms of giving birth, there is simply nothing else we could ask for. When we first got here, we asked about the possibility of going private. People didn’t get it, and now we know why.

Our thoughts are also turning to baby equipment. There is not the same choice here as in the UK, but the quality is high. We have just bought a ‘mountain buggy’ pushchair. Apparently they are tested for mountain conditions over here. How that works with infants, I don’t know. We are forming the opinion that Kiwis raise their kids a bit tougher than us Brits.

Some people reading this will remember Karen and Andy Stroud. We have been to see them a couple of times and easily resumed our old friendship. Andy is still winning races. Karen is pregnant with twins (she already has 4 children) and she is at about 35 weeks. The doctors say that the babies are a healthy size, even by single baby standards. I could believe them. She is huge and yet her frame is still clearly petite. If I can get a picture of them before she pops then I will post it. You won’t believe it’s real.

They both remember Chelmsford Elim in amazing detail, and send their regards to all who knew them.

It is a comfort to know that while I’m away getting up to mischief at work, Jodi and child will be surrounded by young mothers and similar-aged children. There are a couple of children in the church who are taking a real interest in the ‘bump’ (I lovingly refer to it as ‘beer gut’), and have rather sweetly nominated themselves as surrogate cousins. I am confident that when we become parents, we will be in good company.

Can’t think of anything else to say about the baby, except that it is expensive and it isn’t even here yet. Naturally, as soon as it arrives, this site will become a bonanza of colour pictures. Just enjoy the relative cohesion of all this text before the proud Dad effect kicks in and my brains turn to mush.

And some photos

2006-03-08T10:46:00.000+13:00

We went to Rotorua. This is the site of a whole load of geothermal thingys.

Wifey looking even more pregnant
Me looking chunky.

Tauranga

2006-02-15T09:31:00.000+13:00

Took a trip to Tauranga.

Yup, that is the new car.

Wifey looking serene

Mountain, beach and sea in one shot.
Wifey looking pregnant.

Nuff said.

Hokey Pokey

2006-02-13T18:48:00.000+13:00

Well, we have now been in NZ for 5 days. We have been through so much in that time, it is difficult to know were to start. I will try and make it as concise as possible.

The flight was as good as it could have been. Air New Zealand is a good airline, but there is no getting away from the fact that it is a staggeringly long distance to travel. We decided to go for it and do it all in one with a minimal stop-off in Los Angeles. This meant that by the time we touched down in Auckland early on Wednesday morning, we had been travelling for over 30 hours straight.

Our first concern was quickly dealt with. We were met at the airport by a truly first-class couple who have made us welcome in their home ever since. We managed to stay awake for most of the day, before going to our first church meeting in the evening. Spiritual or what?

The next day, we bought a phone and a car. Oh, and we organised a flat. Not bad going for the first 36 hours I know, but we decided that we needed to make friends and establish ourselves quickly, and that meant being connected and mobile, with some degree of independence.

Anyway, we went to our first church service on Sunday. Any Chelmsford Elimites reading this would have seen the similarities immediately. The worship was lead by Jessie, a guy very reminiscent of our old mate Phil, who introduced himself in a very similar style. He is a gifted musician with a great vision and hopeless administrative skills. I think I’m going to like Jessie. When the worship finished, the musicians put down their instruments and went to the back of the church where they loitered for the remainder of the service. The talky bit was then led by a guy with a manner very similar to our own Mike S. He even (jokingly) made fun of the congregation for not getting fired up enough in the climactic part of his sermon. It was just like home on so many levels.

Some things were different though. We liked Crunchie time. Crunchie time involves the Senior Pastor getting up in front of the congregation and handing out Crunchie bars to anyone with a birthday/anniversary, any new visitor, or anyone with any other excuse to go and get a chocolate bar.

We got Crunchie bars for being new people. Some may say that I’m easily pleased, but this was a definite hit with me. What a church! I then gave Jodi a fit of the giggles by reading out the description on the side of the Crunchie:

“Golden Hokey Pokey covered in Cadbury Milk chocolate.”

Hokey Pokey? I thought that was the American term for a kind of dance that involved small children and partially drunk adults standing in a circle. You know – the one that it’s all about? Needless to say that this is not the first linguistic peculiarity that we have encountered.

There is too much else to really give a full account in the time I have. Internet access is going to be a bit intermittent for a couple of months, so be patient. Hope to post some pictures soon.

Unplugged!

2006-01-31T23:47:00.000+13:00

Today I become truly unplugged. My last day at work sees me giving up my phone, my internet access, and my (wonderfully OTT huge black monster truck) car. As well as losing my source of income, I also lose all of the work contacts I have built up over the last three years, and all of the specialist product knowledge I have accumulated in that time suddenly becomes redundant.

Exciting huh? When considering what we have already lost, and what we will lose in the next few days, the promise of Luke 18:28-30 becomes especially important.

I have a tendency to categorise the bible into what is easy and what is hard. Easy things are the straight forward teachings which are immediately palatable, such as ‘thou shalt not kill’, or ‘love thy neighbour’. This is not to say that they are always easy in execution, nor are they without their complications, but they are certainly on the easier side in terms of concepts to get to grips with.

Compare that with the real stinkers of scripture. We are invited to pluck out our eyes if they cause us to sin, expose ourselves to persecution, and follow our role model into places of suffering. Real blessing comes when we are poor and meek and in mourning. Hurrah!

Few people would dare claim that they fully understand these theological curve-balls. Whether we do or not, we still have a reaction to them. Up until now, I have always found the whole ‘leave everything you have and follow me’ concept to be quite threatening. I have always considered it more sensible to try and carry out the ‘easier’ commands from a position of relative strength, whilst objectively chewing over the more difficult bits that might leave me destitute. I am really pleased that God blesses those who mourn (He’s a nice guy like that), but I would rather avoid putting him to the trouble myself.

Much of this stuff is still threatening, but one or two previously unpopular passages of scripture are starting to go way up in my estimations. This is because in the light of our changing circumstances they have been transformed from a rap on the knuckles to a promise of blessing and providence.

This will probably be the last blog entry from the Northern Hemisphere. Anyone is welcome to come to our last service on 5^th February (later morning service) at Chelmsford Elim. We go straight to the airport from there!

Farewells

2006-01-23T22:44:00.000+13:00

Handed over the keys to the house on Friday. Drove away wondering if I’d locked the back door. Isn’t it funny how you just can’t unplug from the responsibility of owning a house that quickly?

An aunt of mine has very obligingly gone to South America for 2 weeks and left us with a house to use until we go. We are now living out of 4 suitcases and will be for the next 3 months at least. We are now at the stage where many of the people we are meeting, we are meeting for possibly the last time. We spend some time with people and then the time comes to leave. We wave goodbye and say ‘see you’, while at the very same time it dawns on us that we may never again do just that.

Today I say goodbye to Neil, a friend of mine who lost his fight against cancer recently. I have a bit of an advantage over most people, because I went to see him in hospital about a week before he died. We had quite a laugh (between bouts of coughing) and talked about life, death, snot and the general hilarity of bodily functions. In short, we covered most of the topics that you are probably not supposed to chat with cancer patients about. We could do this because Neil’s attitude to his condition was so positive, my awareness of the taboo is sketchy at best, and we both secretly retain a firm appreciation of unrefined schoolboy humour. It was no hardship giving up an evening to go and see him that night.

Anyway, we agreed that if sufficiently recovered, Neil would come to our last service on 5^th February. Just in case though, he wished me well for the future, and we parted company a little closer yet with an awareness that we might never see each other again.

There is probably a school of thought that says that we should take that attitude whenever we say goodbye to anyone. Few of us practise it though. I am just pleased that my situation inadvertently prompted me to bid farewell to Neil in such an appropriate way.

So for today at least, my goodbyes have already been said. What remains is a period of profound respect for a good and gentle man. The like of whom the world can ill afford to lose.

The day cometh....

2006-01-07T05:37:00.000+13:00

Well, we now have a number of dates to work to. The house looks like it will complete on the 20^th January. I have booked flights for the 6^th February. We will go to the service on Sunday 5^th (probably in the morning) and that is likely to be the last you will see of us for a while. Weird or what?

One or two realities are now starting to make their presence felt. I will list some of them in no particular order of importance.

We have a one-way ticket to a place we have never been to. Not only have we never been there, but we have never been within thousands of miles of the place.

Until now, we have only been afforded a passing acquaintance with the people we’re meeting up with.

We don’t actually know what we are going to do when we get there.

The only information we have on the place is based on hearsay.

Our reasons for going are rooted in a belief system which most of the world dismisses as nonsense. The rest of the world would be very suspicious as to whether we’d actually heard right.

In material terms, it will cost us greatly.

Once we are there, we will be given a level of responsibility that neither of us has ever had to cope with before.

There is no likelihood of us being able to return in the foreseeable future.

We have no certainty as to when we will see our loved ones again.

I could go on. The thing is that when I think through all these things, they are undeniably frightening, and raise certain doubts about the wisdom of what we are doing. This is probably not unhealthy. If nothing else it shows that we are still sane.

But there is something else: a faint feeling of unease which is somehow strangely familiar. I could not put my finger on it until it dawned on me today, but I have felt this way before. I feel this way whenever I contemplate my own funeral.

Reader fear not! I am not about to make this a morbid post. Quite the contrary! If what we claim to believe is true, and if what we do every Sunday (and at other times in the week) has any meaning at all, then the point at which we die is the most wonderful and explosive and climactic point in our whole lives. From the cradle we are taught about the wonders of heaven, and what incomprehensible joy awaits us there. When I say incomprehensible joy, I mean a place of such intensity of goodness, such enormity of nerve-jangling head-bursting retina-searing pleasure; such all-consuming, superlative-dwarfing, knuckle-suckingly close proximity to Perfection, that the whole concept of ‘bad’ will be regarded like one of Stephen Hawkin’s theories on space-time curvature. Seriously, unbelievably, good is the kind of concept I ‘m trying to get across here.

We all really want to go. But if we were told that we would get there tomorrow, it would send us into a blind panic. This makes no sense and we know it, yet the reaction is common to each of us. In fact we would probably be able to make a list of concerns just like the ones above. I found it quite reassuring to go through the list of realities above whilst considering a trip to heaven rather than a mere jaunt across the globe. Try it yourself. I didn’t have to change a word!

Now I’m not really comparing New Zealand to Heaven (although plenty of others have done just that). It’s going to have it problems. But the whole idea of leaving everything we know on the basis of blind faith is a faint echo of our ultimate journey. I probably shouldn’t be surprised when I see related feelings in myself, in Jodi, and in those we know.

Still, at least we can still update this blog from NZ. As far as I know, that’s still not possible from Heaven.

Wouldn’t it be cool though?

Cramps

2005-12-30T13:39:00.000+13:00

Well, much as it pains me to say it, the Christmas thing wasn’t too bad this year. I normally loath the time of year for its pressures and excesses, but even I must confess that the family time was rather enjoyable. The kids were on good form, both mums worked wonders with the dinner without getting stressed, and there was no sitting around watching pointless TV.

Having ducked out of the whole season so many times in the past, it was probably important to tow the line this year and do the traditional thing with families. That sort of family gathering is about to get a whole lot more complicated in the coming year.

Sadly, my attempts to cycle every day have not been so successful. I started off well, averaging 25 miles/day, before hitting trouble halfway through my ride on Boxing day. Since then, my legs have been locking up with cramps at various points in the day, and I have discovered that the repeated pedalling action has worn my skin a bit thin in various strategic places. Needless to say, Jodi has seen the humour in this as she’s reached for the Savlon. I will continue tomorrow, but I think the target of 250 miles is now beyond reach.

Still, this is fairly insignificant in light of the news that my mate Tony is out of immediate danger with his cancer op. What great news. I lack the spiritual jargon to express it eloquently, but I can’t help feeling that he still has some important stuff to do here before he has his one-to-one with Jesus. Events of this type are a really useful wakeup call to the value of our friends. Maybe that’s what it was all about. Maybe I speculate too much.

Anyway, January is likely to be a quiet month here on the blogging front as we get ready to move. Timing-wise we are still looking at early February for our departure. Then, for the first few months, it will be a case of as-and-when I can find an internet terminal. In the meantime, I reckon that our time of waiting and anticipating will rapidly give way to a time of frantic organisation, emotional turmoil, and a general feeling of ‘stop the ride now, I want to get off’.

All good fun.

Life's little complications

2005-12-07T22:42:00.000+13:00

Funny things happen when you get a bit radical. When you get to the point where you say to yourself, ‘I’m pretty fed up with life as it is. Let’s just go nuts and follow one of God’s crazy schemes!’ it has a tendency to stir things up somewhat. People talk about God’s plans unfolding, developing, ‘achieving fruitfulness’. These terms are way off the mark in our case. When Jodi and I decided to stick two fingers up at the kind of established blueprint for leading a responsible life and let God have some fun, his plans detonated.

Those who know us will be familiar with the kind of struggles Jodi and I have faced in simply waiting for life to move on. We have exhausted all of the sensible options in work, family and social roles. We have gained the qualifications, bought the sensible cars, built the child-friendly 3 bedroom house, kept ourselves fit at the gym and worked at occupations which pay the bills nicely, and completely fail to stimulate us in any way. Remind yourself of the title of this blog. It is one of the few things on here written in earnest.

So, one morning, back in late September, I was thrilled to receive a package through the post from the NZ immigration service. I knew it was coming, but it was still good to receive the official documents – and so fast. As I sat eating my branflakes according to normal protocol, and contemplating a new life on distant shores, Jodi decided to creep up behind me, and excitedly wave a white stick directly in front of my face. This wouldn’t normally bother me, except for the fact that I was in the middle of breakfast, and the stick in question was one she had just wee’d on. Some people have no idea of manners.

Anyway, the ‘little complication’ referred to in the title was recently on the receiving end of the NHS’s finest scanning gear. Voila:

The scanning gear is amazing. You get to see the heart beating, the baby twitching, and when I made Jodi laugh, it was like an earthquake. I wanted to try the scanner on my head, to see if my brain changed shape with various different thoughts. Apparently though, that’s not proper use of NHS equipment. Shame.

The little Albery should be with us at the beginning of June. We plan to be in NZ by early February, so that gives us four months to secure an income, find and move into a suitable home, establish a completely new spiritual and social circle, and set up all the logistics for living day-to-day with a tiny baby. Bring it on! I use the word ‘plan’ very loosely, because life-changing events are like buses right now. I did mention to one close family member that my plan on arriving in NZ was to buy a donkey and go and find a stable somewhere whilst keeping an eye out for travelling types bearing eccentric gifts. Not really sure how they took that one.

It would not really be right to finish this post without thanking the people who have quietly interceded for us. You know who you are. Bless you (and don’t stop).

Snot

2005-12-06T00:49:00.000+13:00

I wish there was a practical use for it. I am sitting at my desk producing tons of the stuff. I notice from my tissues that it does tend to dry with certain adhesive qualities. Maybe I could find a way to market it as some kind of glue. According to my Granddad, they used to make glue out of old horses. This has always baffled me, because if you touch a horse, you soon realise that they are not all that sticky. Snot is clearly a far more viable alternative.

I tend to enter a state of denial about illness. For years, my standard way of dealing with cold or flu symptoms was to go down to the gym and thrash it out on weights and running machines. This was until I lived with a doctor who informed me that this could in fact kill me. He was very much an advocate of no-nonsense advice.

The problem is, when you wake up on a week day, you generally don’t feel like going to work. There are one or two exceptions. For instance, I once saw a documentary about a guy who spent his whole working life blowing up buildings with high explosive. I think he would rank alongside the professional chocolate tasters, armchair testers and 'Top Gear' presenters as being someone who really didn’t need to summon enthusiasm for going to work. The vast majority of us though, have a daily struggle with motivation to go and do battle with the twin horrors of tedium and stress in our workplaces.

Because of this, I can never take a sick day off work with an entirely clear conscience. That and the added prospect of daytime TV is usually enough to drive me to the office.

However, this morning, I think I have really impressed my directors with my display of mucus production. Having shown willing by coming in and spreading my germs, I don’t think they can complain when I go home a bit early today.

'Tis the season to be snotty.

Graffiti

2005-11-11T02:17:00.000+13:00

Let’s be clear. Graffiti is bad. It wilfully damages or diminishes the appearance of property, and as such is criminal damage. It's very, very naughty!

It normally leaves me somewhat dismayed to see it on my journeys here and there. However I was particularly distressed to learn (courtesy of an inscription on our local post box) that ‘Sally is a minger’.

Now I don’t know Sally. I’m not even completely sure what a minger is, but I am fairly confident that it’s not meant in a complimentary manner. It pained me to think that the author, clearly aggrieved over some matter at the hands of Sally, did not feel able to go to her and talk through his or her differences. Instead they felt compelled to declare their feelings in no uncertain terms using black permanent marker.

I feel for Sally.

For this reason, and not withstanding the opening paragraph of this post, I felt my heart strangely warmed when, during my walk up the road to secure today’s supply of chocolate buttons, I saw this:

Youngsters take note: if you feel the overwhelming urge to deface public property; if you feel there is no option but to try out the product of many years of state-funded education on your local road-sign; if you cannot resist the unsanctioned display of your innermost thoughts and feelings; then that’s tough. Don’t do it. Naughty!

But if you do, then take your lead from the picture.

We all have a responsibility to build each other up. Graffiti practitioners are no exception. We should all be looking for ways to encourage each other in the finer details of what we do, and if we can think of nothing better to say, then we can say no better than ‘you’re great’. If you’re going to break the law, then go nuts with positive affirmation. Rock on Holly!

There is a quiet, romantic and probably naïve part of me that would really like to think that Holly was the original author behind the post-box text. Sally (perhaps better versed in the Scriptures than in the Criminal Damage Act 1971), read this with dismay, and contemplated the best way to respond whilst bearing in mind the advice of Luke 6:28 and Romans 12:20. Maybe it was at this point that she decided to be the bigger person and counter with a far more positive statement about her accuser. Maybe Holly, accustomed to being routinely put down and insulted, read Sally’s message and experienced a quiet personal revelation, and resolved thereafter to follow this new and shining path of being nice to people.

It could happen I tell you!

SOLD (stc)

2005-11-08T04:21:00.000+13:00

I have just accepted an offer on our house. Naturally, this is only the start of a potentially lengthy process, but it is definitely promising from the point of view of meeting our desired timescale. Our would-be buyers have no onward chain, and are keen to move in around the end of January.

This is a rather good development. It means we can do the Christmas / New Year thing with our families, and also get flights at a cheap rate going into February. We now also have some vague idea as to dates, which in turn gives us some much-needed focus for our planning.

I have asked the agents to make all possible checks as to the reliability of our buyers. I have the strange prospect of handing my notice in at work on the basis of an offer on the house from a couple I hardly know. They’d better not muck us about.

As you can imagine, my chocolate button intake has gone up quite substantially this afternoon. In fact, I am so chuffed, that I am posting the following picture for no apparent reason:

I am concerned that they won't get my sense of humour in NZ.

Razors

2005-11-02T05:15:00.000+13:00

I was queuing up in the supermarket today. This is something I do quite a lot, as I have a bit of a weakness for going out at lunchtime and buying chocolate buttons. As I stood there staring at the chewing gum, a thought suddenly struck me. Among all of the other types of gum, one stood out as patently absurd: Orbit Professional.

I have never met a professional gum chewer. At least I don’t think I have. Maybe I should look out for highly developed jaw muscles, or a rapid yet seemingly effortless chewing action. Maybe there’s a professional association to which they all belong.

To think that for all these years, I’ve settled for amateur gum.

I was contemplating what form a CPD seminar for gum-chewing professionals might take when I saw something even more bizarre: the razor blades. Or more accurately, their branding.

Some years ago, I became irritated to find that I could no longer buy French bread. Instead I had to settle for baguettes, which were exactly the same, but could not be called by their former name due to the fact that they weren’t technically from France. This would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that I could still buy Swiss rolls, Belgian buns and frankfurters.

Such semantic quibbles pale into insignificance however, when compared to the monumental intellectual insult that is razor blade branding. Since when has a sharpened strip of metal set into a moulded plastic handle qualify for a name such as ‘MACH 3 TURBO’?

Let’s analyse this shall we?

‘Mach’ is a term used to describe speed in a given medium as a ratio of the speed of sound. Such speeds are usually fairly impressive. At sea level, at temperatures of 15 degrees Celsius, the speed of sound (mach 1) is around 716 mph. Three times this is 2148 mph. Incidentally, the friction generated in air by this kind of speed is guaranteed to melt both the razor and the plastic handle. I don't like to think about what effect this kind of frenzied shaving would have on your skin.

But wait! I have not been fair. The razor does not have to pass through air, but shaving foam! Strangely enough, there is no real research for the speed of sound through shaving foam. I can tell you though that mach 3 in water (subject to pressure and temperature) is around 9624 mph. Since it is fair to suggest that shaving foam consists primarily of water and air, we can say that mach 3 in this case is somewhere between 2148 and 9624 mph!

I can’t even begin to tell you how much is wrong with the term ‘turbo’. It refers to a device which adds to the overall power of an internal combustion engine by making good use of the exhaust gasses! Even the most highly charged engine using this type of technology would get nowhere near the required speeds. To use a term such as turbo to somehow qualify a term like mach 3 is akin to saying ‘Performance like an Enzo Ferrari – clockwork!’

Maybe Gillette has recognised the folly of its own marketing strategy, for in the shelf next to the ‘turbo’, I saw another travesty of terminology: ‘M3 POWER NITRO’. Yes, Gillette, having clearly fielded too many complaints from stubbley hunks who fail to achieve supersonic speeds with their 'turbo' razors, have gone down the nitro route.

Nitro is a slang reference to Nitrous Oxide, and is presumably a reference to the practice of injecting the gas into modified car engines in an attempt to boost the power output. The combustion qualities of nitro make it simultaneously very effective and dangerous for this purpose. I am at a loss as to what this has to do with shaving. The gas is also known as laughing gas: the same as used in dentist surgeries in times past.

I would have liked to have been around during the product development of this product, when the test subject was invited to try out a new razor. Maybe he was told that the design was inspired by dubious engineering practices, uncontrollable laughter and wildly overambitious and impracticable performance claims. Maybe he thought that he wasn’t getting paid enough.

I would like to bring out a range of products based on honesty. Maybe I could market a range of razors with the slogans such as ‘Jonathan’s Razors. They’re really good for shaving with’.

Yeah! I like it. Why stop now while I’m on a roll?

Jonathan’s Deodorant. It will stop you smelling - but not for long.

Jonathan’s Chocolate. The most enjoyable way to get fat.

Jonathan’s Cheese. Eat it, don’t sniff it.

Jonathan’s Trainers. Ironically, worn by both top athletes and idle youths.

Jonathan’s Crisps. This packet contains mostly air.

Jonathan’s Revolutionary Dusting System. The refills for this will cost you a fortune.

Jonathan’s Skincare Range. We could tell you what’s in it, but you wouldn’t understand.

Jonathan’s Make-Up Range. If you’re really ugly, this won’t help.

Jonathan’s Power Tools. Magnify the effect of your practical incompetence.

Any other wannabe marketing masterminds out there?

The Frog

2005-10-25T00:38:00.000+13:00

We need to sell our house before we leave the country. It has been on the market for about 2 weeks, and partly due to the fact that everything else has gone so quickly and smoothly, we are getting impatient that no one has yet offered the asking price.

I have very nearly finished decorating the final (master) bedroom, so we are almost at showroom status. We have to keep on top of the cleaning and general clutter about the house in case someone comes to view. At the weekend, the estate agent called me with a request to show ‘a great potential buyer’ around at short notice. Short notice turned out to be 10 minutes. This was just long enough for a quick underwear check. An underwear check entails running around the house removing any such items from radiators and airers, and generally minimising the whole Chinese Laundry look.

Apparently, it is also important to keep the gardens in good order. As we are still getting warm sunny days in late October, this means I am still mowing the lawn.

When we first moved to the property, it was pretty derelict. The previous occupiers did nothing to maintain the house, but were keen gardeners. As such, we inherited a garden full of (probably expensive) plants and shrubs, and a huge green house. This greenhouse was entirely useless to me, and came to be on the receiving end of my catapult (another blog entry) and my various pyromaniac adventures (I could probably do several entries on this) until it was finally destroyed by my wife with the aid of a demolition hammer. What a woman.

The area of land on which it stood was cleared and levelled. After seeding it with grass, we were delighted to see that complete coverage took only a few weeks.

Not being a keen gardener, I was not really prepared for the effect that this would take. Lawns, unless properly fed and nurtured, tend to use up the nutrients in the soil and grow somewhat tired over time. This is great news for people like me, because we don’t have to mow them so often, as they don’t grow so fast.

Unfortunately, the patch of earth in the greenhouse had, for many years, been the recipient of some of the richest compost and fertiliser that money could buy. This, coupled with a generous sprinkling of grass seed, rapidly produced an area in the centre of our lawn where the exact footprint of the old greenhouse was marked out in the most absurdly green grass. The effect was enhanced by the fact that this grass grew twice as fast as anything else around it.

This area of vivid colour is always moist, cool and shady, due to the grass that just will not remain short. As a result, it does tend to attract frogs. Big ones.

On many occasions, as I have struggled to push the mower through this dense canopy of vegetation, I have been ‘boinged’ by a disturbed amphibian, leaping from the path of whirling, hover assisted certain death.

I quite like frogs. It’s nothing I can really put my finger on, but for some reason they are endearing, inoffensive little creatures with vaguely amusing methods of movement. They find a pleasant spot and sit in it for a long time. They sometimes like to swim a bit, and then chill out by the waters edge. They don’t bite, smell or poo in inappropriate places. In short, they are everything I try to be when I am on holiday.

So you can imagine my reaction yesterday when I ran over a huge one with the mower. It was sitting in a slight depression in the grass and carefully camouflaged. Maybe it thought it could sit it out and allow the spinning blades to pass just overhead. Maybe it considered itself a match for Flymo’s finest. Maybe it was embarking on a misjudged test of faith. Maybe it just wasn’t fast enough. We will never know.

I realised just too late that I had gone over what might have been something somewhat frog-shaped. Having been so careful in the past, I was instantly gutted.

I say gutted, but that is actually a better description for the frog. The mower had left an almost surgical wound on the frog which was clearly of the instant death variety. My immediate remorse gave way to a kind of horrified fascination, as I bent down to look at nature’s free biology lesson. There is just so much stuff inside a frog. No wonder they’re always wet. They’re sweating just to keep it all in.

After regressing back to schoolboy mode for a good few minutes, and with the aid of a twig and a trowel, acquainting myself with the inner workings of frogs, I came to the realisation that I had so much more reason to feel remorse. I think this frog was so fat because it was carrying the next generation of frogs. Hundreds of them.

I am the destroyer of families. I rain death with my flymo. Is there any redemption?

Some days...

2005-10-13T05:15:00.000+13:00

Some days, the biggest journey you take is to the end of your own garden. Some days, the biggest thing you achieve is getting through another day at work. Some days, the most notable thing that happens is another bird pooing on your windscreen.

I have had enough of this type of day.

Some time ago, a guy came from a very long way away and spoke at our church. He implored us to recognise our vision, and claim a productive and blessed life in God. He encouraged us to pursue our calling, and replace our fear of the consequences with a faith in God’s providence.

This guy has a lot to answer for.

That day set in motion a series of events which has led us to this momentous day, where I can, for the first time, post something of actual significance on this blog. This series of events has been nothing short of a ballet of previously unrelated situations and arrangements, falling into new, unexpected and entirely complimentary positions. If I wasn’t a Christian, I’d be really freaked by now.

I suppose I’d better get to the point.

Some Christians open a door, and ask God to close it if it is not the right way. Jodi (my wife) and I opened one particular door for a peek, and were lovingly yet firmly booted through it. For us, this door opened to an entirely new life in Hamilton, New Zealand.

We are currently holders of full, indefinite residency visas. I have an open offer of a job out there with a large contracting firm. We have a church (Elim) organised in Hamilton, and are currently sorting out the shipping arrangements. All that remains to be done here is to sell our house (which is currently on the market).

Some people will already be aware of this – it was necessary to inform a few strategic people in advance, so apologies if you feel left out.

We are not entirely sure where our long term purpose lies at the moment. I think that if we did, we would probably struggle to cope with the amount of stuff on our plate right now. I have been the recipient of a number of prophecies from people I respect and yet, to date, I have taken them lightly. In fact, I have mentally filed these under the category ‘wildly ambitious’. I’ll let you know what God makes of that appraisal when we get there.

A house can take months to go through. However, they say the same about visa applications. Ours took thirteen days. We are hoping to leave some time in early January. I’ll update how this is going as and when.

In the meantime, I am in need of a crash course in the game of rugby. Apparently it's not just about a load of blokes cuddling each other. All advice gratefully received.

Maureen

2005-10-01T03:14:00.000+12:00

I recently found myself queuing up in a bank. This is not my favourite pastime, so I usually while away the minutes by studying the processes and interactions which occur behind the counter.

On this occasion, one of the cashiers was on the phone. She had obviously been asked by someone on the other end to see whether a friend was one of those queuing up. Having apparently agreed to check, she held her hand over the mouthpiece, leant over the counter, looked me right in the eyes, and loudly enquired, ‘Maureen?’

Do I look like a Maureen?

Having registered my suitably blank look, the cashier returned to the phone to apparently confirm to the caller that the nineteen-stone bald bloke stood in front of her was not responding to the name ‘Maureen’, and that they had better try another line of enquiry.

I hope I never meet the real Maureen.

Luckily, on reaching the front of the queue, I was not assigned to this woefully undiscerning cashier. Instead, I got to speak to a truly delightful little blonde woman. I say ‘got to speak’, because in my bank, they have Perspex flaps which partially cover the openings in the main Perspex screen. I could therefore talk through the narrow gap that these flaps allowed, but not listen, as the Perspex blocked the passage of sound to my ears. I could however turn my head 90 degrees so that I could listen to what she was saying to me, but then I couldn’t speak. In order to communicate effectively, I had to be prepared to alternate between these two positions. During a reasonably quick conversational exchange, this results in my head pivoting in a manner that is faintly reminiscent of a windscreen wiper.

Now I have developed a compromise position which allows less animated communication in my bank. I can turn my head by about 45 degrees and push it forward between the Perspex flaps. The flaps are on some kind of spring mechanism, so they do move back partially if I wedge my head between them. I can then usually position myself such that I can maintain an angled eye contact with the cashier whilst having at least one ear pointing at her beyond the Perspex screen.

Sadly, this position is not without its drawbacks. Next time you’re in a bank, and feel led to try this, you will notice that in order to actually get one of your ears (and indeed most of your face) between the springy flaps and beyond the line of the Perspex screen, your head will have in fact advanced quite a long way over the cashier’s desk. In fact, had I stayed in that position for any length of time, I could have counted the rubber knobbles on her money-counting thimble. This did not escape the attention of the lovely blonde cashier, who reclined a little, and grasped the underside of her desk in what could have been just a routine change of position. But I’m not absolutely sure.

In terms of appearance, I am not the most subtle of men. Indeed, this fact also appeared to be playing on the mind of the cashier. This I could tell by the momentary hesitation that she seemed to experience when I, casting her a sidelong glace and thrusting my ear in her direction, said, ‘I’d like some money please’. I was going to put her at ease by winking at her, but considering the fact that she could probably only see one of my eyes I decided against it.

The staff at my bank are generally very good and not phased by much. Maybe this comes about through repeated exposure to people like Maureen.

The cashier smiled sweetly and processed my transaction. She even managed to feign amusement at some unbelievably lame joke I made. However, I left the bank feeling very glad that I am already happily married. If I can scare the girls just by getting money out of the bank, then I would dread to think what devastation I could cause by having to chat them up.

Although, if it came to it, I’m sure I couldn’t scare Maureen.

Party in the park

2005-09-23T08:40:00.000+12:00

I'm not too keen on posting on personal events. I don't have many. But this place is looking a bit dull, so I thought I'd post some pictures of the Birthday Party in the Park that Jodi organised for me. It's either that or my surveying pictures of broken guttering.

Jodi managed to organise a whole picnic table spread witout me knowing. Makes me wonder what else she gets up to.

Tom is actually a very good looking young man. I like to use pictures like this to keep him humble.

This is apparently as good as it gets in terms of photos of me. Maybe that explains why it's slightly out of focus.

This is Alice, cooking my dinner. Marion is the nice lady behind her who will kill me for showing her picture to the world. Not many people know this, but Marion is a world class nuclear physicist. She can generate radioactive matter from nothing more than a few household vegetables and a good glass of wine. Ratatouille is what she called it I think. Must be some technical term.

Altar Points

2005-09-12T21:42:00.000+12:00

At this point, I’d like to expand on a little initiative that a friend and I were developing some time ago.

I have been taken in by a marketing ploy. I always use the same station for refuelling my car. When I pay, I get points which accumulate until I can redeem them for something of value. It really works. I find myself planning my refuelling stops so that my tank runs empty just as I am passing the right station. I never use discount tokens, always bin my junk mail, hang up on cold callers, rarely go in for promotional deals, but this little rouse has got me. Well done marketers!

I was wondering, what if we offered points for church attendance? We could have a number of ways to qualify for points, each inspiring us and encouraging us to become involved in church life with ever greater vigour. I have a small list of various promotional ideas for accumulating points. As ever, I welcome input from other free thinkers.

Point Earners
Attending a church service (swipe card entry) 50 points
Attending morning + evening service 120 points
Singing with gusto 50 point bonus
Talking to person sat alone 100 points
Dancing in situ 100 points
Dancing in aisle 250 points
Encouraging exclamations during sermon (Amen!/Hallelujah!/Preach it brother!)
20 points / occurrence
Bringing a ‘churched’ friend along 100 points
Bringing an ‘unchurched’ friend along 400 points
Unchurched friend goes for prayer 600 points
Unchurched friend makes commitment 2000 points
Sustaining abuse during street evangelism 800 points
Stacking chairs 2 points / chair

Penalties
Yawning in sermon -20 points
Lingering after church lights are switched off -30 points
Reading church newsletter during sermon -40 points
Giving the PA guy withering looks -80 points
Territorial / strategic choice of church seating -100 points
Reckless use of flags / banners -100 points

Points redemption
Worship song request 500 points
Fairtrade yoghurt rasins 800 points
‘Make Apostasy History’ wristband 1000 points
Free toaster 3000 points
1 month’s allocated space in church car park 2000 points
Burberry bible cover 2500 points
Paid trip to Hillsongs Austraila 50000 points

The Wind of Enlightenment

2005-09-06T22:24:00.000+12:00

I am aware that at this point I may be in danger of plunging my blog into the depths of juvenile humour, but let’s face it: you know I’m not that bothered.

Today I farted on the train, and totally got caught.

It was the surprise factor that got me. Sometimes you can feel one creeping up on you, and you can discreetly lift one buttock in an attempt to equalise the pressure in a controlled and quite manner. Not so today. This one was a large beast that crept up on me from nowhere. I was quietly reading Tozer (see right) and minding my own business, when it decided to make its presence felt, proudly declaring its emergence with a distinct buttock-buzzing sound. I immediately adopted the standard strategy: keeping my eyes down and pretending it hadn’t happened. The guy sitting opposite me did an admirable job of maintaining concentration on his newspaper whilst only shifting slightly in his seat. The guy alongside flicked his eyes momentarily sideways and winced ever-so slightly, as if bracing himself for the inevitable fallout of noxious gasses.

Luckily, in terms of odour, this one was completely benign. I was quite relieved (pardon the pun) that I had got away without any challenging ‘you dunnit’ looks, although I can’t be sure whether this is in part due to my potentially intimidating size and appearance to strangers.

All this happened whilst I was reading a chapter discussing the Beatitudes, entitled ‘meekness and rest’. It was all to do with the rest that comes from abandoning the need to maintain pretence, pride and social standing in the eyes of the world.

At this point you’d probably expect me to launch into an exploration of how farting in public released me from maintaining the pretence of one who is always in control of everything; bodily functions included. I must admit, the thought did cross my mind, and is probably worthy of further discussion as something that fully backs up Tozer’s arguments (although probably not in the way he’d imagined).

Alas, my attention was instead drawn to another flash of realisation. A searing hole had appeared in my understanding of the world, of man’s position as a fallen being and of creation.

Where do farts come from? I mean, I know physically where the come from obviously, but in terms of actual origins of the phenomena, were we designed as flatulent beings? Or was it all part of the package when we got chucked out of the Garden of Eden, along with the ‘by the sweat of your brow you will eat’ deal? To put it bluntly: did Adam and Eve fart?

In order to answer this, I did a little bit of research. I found this page to be most helpful. On the surface it would appear that the accumulation and expulsion of such gasses is a good indicator of normal digestion. Adam and Eve were told that they could ‘eat the fruit of any tree in the garden, except.....’ Clearly then, we were designed to eat, and therefore by deduction to digest. So far, so good for farts.

However there are one or two notable differences in the garden of Eden that could complicate matters. One is fairly simple, and one complex.

Firstly, the Eden diet is fairly exclusive. Before the fall, there is the obvious reference to fruit, and Genesis 1:11 also talks about grain bearing plants being created on the third day. Fruit, and possibly grain then were the staple foods for Adam and Eve. Not a tin of Heinz in sight.

Secondly (and this is where it gets tricky), there is the issue of bacteria. Many creationists and proponents of intelligent design such as these guys believe that death did not happen before the first sin committed by man. Every being and organism was created perfect (it was ‘good’ in the parlance of God - that’s usually taken to be pretty perfect), and therefore was not designed for death. Look into it. The arguments are compelling.

Now this is all well and good until you consider that in each of our digestive tracts, there is a self contained ecosystem of abundant bacteria. These little guys reproduce, grow, stuff themselves on the passing food and happily produce all sorts of gasses, before ending their short lives without ever leaving your body. They enable us to digest all sorts of stuff, and we wouldn’t be too healthy without them. However, in order for this ecosystem to be maintained, it is necessary for there to be a steady turnover of bacteria in the gut, and that means bacteria reproducing and dying with a certain regularity. Therefore our digestion in its current form could not have existed prior to the fall. Either we had immortal bacteria (unlikely), or the food in the Garden of Eden was so good, and so perfectly in tune with our bodies, that we didn’t need help digesting it.

Stay with me.

Now from my research, I can tell you that bodily gasses accumulate for a variety of reasons, including air being swallowed, gases released from the blood stream etc. It’s not just about food. Therefore I am confident that Adam and Eve did have to break wind once in a while, and that it was all part of God’s wonderful plan. However, all of the nasty smells involved would have had to have come from bacteria (which they didn’t have) reacting with food other than fruits and grains (which they didn’t eat).

I would therefore propose that the Garden of Eden was filled with the sound of birds singing, rushing water, and the occasional fart, and it was all part of God’s perfect creation. However they never had to pardon each other, as they just didn’t smell.

Sadly this could not alter the fact that one of the first things that man said to God was ‘she did it’.

So the next time you hear a brother or sister in The Lord making music from their trousers, bless them and remind them that they were made perfect in God’s sight. However, if this gaseous event turns out to be a room-clearing, polyester-melting bacterial bonanza, quietly remind the individual that the reason your eyes are watering is the indirect result of their allegiance with Satan. Suggest that they go seek the Lord in a well ventilated area.

I might mention my findings to Dr. Snelling the next time he comes to speak at Elim. I'd love to know what he'd make of it.

Steel Gloves

2005-09-02T22:05:00.000+12:00

I suppose you could argue that this had three votes. See - I do care really

I recently went on holiday with Jodi (my wife) and our good friends Ann and Andrew. We went to the Czech Republic, spending three days in Prague, before traveling south to spend our remaining week in a house in South Bohemia.

The Czech Republic is an interesting place. I could talk all about the Communist heritage, the cost of living, the people and the architecture. But you wanted to know about steel gloves. Okay then.

Throughout the holiday, I was fascinated by the number of shops which sold some fairly frightening weapons and general military gear. I was horrified that this stuff could be sold to the general public apparently without checks or licenses. Yet this did not stop me looking in all of the windows and explaining to Andrew exactly how illegal the various items would be in the UK, and exactly how badly they could mess up your day if you ever happened to be shot / stabbed / clubbed with any of them. At this point, the girls tended to wander off to the nearest shoe shop.

However in Cesky Kromlov (where the beer is cheaper than water, and the waters are rapid), there were a few armouries where I was very tempted to buy things. This was because they contained an abundance of mediaeval weapons and armour. What young boy has not seen pictures of the knights of old, engaged in heroic deeds, rescuing maidens and slaying dragons? Who has not dreamt likewise: of blokes dressing up in armour and generally running around spanking each other with great big swords?

Some of us never get past that stage.

These places were little caverns of boyhood wonder. There were swords great and small adorning the walls, along with axes, maces, breastplates, helmets, chainmail and a few shiny metal things that even I could not identify. Even the shop assistant was dressed as a buxom wench. Hurrah! Andrew and I stood in wonder for a while (I think that was his reaction - either that or he was doing a pretty good job of humouring me), taking in the multitude of historic score-settling equipment, before seeing these:

They stood out and called to me. I had absolutely no justification for buying them, but it was the end of the holiday and I had money to ‘use up’ (that old chestnut). I had visions of them adorning my fireplace, or of wearing them when greeting door to door salesmen. The possibilities were endless.

I managed to communicate my interest to the buxom wench who hesitantly took a pair down from the wall and allowed me to try them on. I stuffed my hands into them and quickly realized that they weren’t going to fit. Unperturbed, I tried further pairs on and encountered similar difficulty.

Andrew managed to get a couple of pairs on and reported, ‘Wow, you feel like you could smash through a wall with these things on!’ They did look formidable. Sadly, in the meantime I had managed to work my way through every pair of gauntlets in the shop without success. My hands are like shovels. I thanked the wench and left the shop despondent, muttering about how knights of old were pigeon-chested pansies with small hands. My vision of heroic, armour-clad war machines had taken a serious knock.

Happily though, the rest of the holiday went very well, and although I couldn’t dress like a mediaeval nobleman, I could certainly eat like one. Dinner usually consisted of a large plate of meat on which any vegetable matter was kept to a small garnish. Just as it should be.

WW'NTJD

2005-09-01T04:06:00.000+12:00

Inspired by a T-shirt that I saw recently, I have decided to explore a more spiritual vein. I once considered getting the letters WWJD tattooed across the knuckles of my right hand, in preference to the oh-so passé love and hate. I kind of liked the twisted idea of spiritual enlightenment meeting the fashions of brutish thuggery. It never happened though. Funny that.

Anyway, I decided to think of some of the things that Jesus wouldn’t do. I came up with the following. You may like to add your own.

What wouldn’t Jesus do?

1. Pull a moony.
2. Wink
3. Ever use the phrase, ‘well I can’t be everywhere at once’.
4. Arson
5. Become a Big Brother contestant
6. Update his blog on work time (!)
7. Work in telesales
8. Rev his engine at the traffic lights whilst giving challenging looks to the drivers alongside.
9. Eat marshmallows more than 2 at a time
10 Forget your name 3 minutes into a conversation
11 Forget your name
12 Morris dancing
13 Own a Kalashnikov
14 Worry about the 7 signs of aging
15 Ever use the chat-up line, ‘hey babe, heaven must be missing an angel right now.......’
16 Ever use chat-up lines of any description
17 Download novelty ringtones
18 Stretch cling film over the toilet bowl just for the fun of it
19 Leave mince pies out for Father Christmas
20 Sing along to Bohemian Rhapsody
21 Scooby doo impressions

I haven’t quite located all the scripture to be able to back up all of the above, but I know it’s there. Let me know when I’m getting too irreverent.

Mandatory Post-Holiday Blog

2005-08-30T20:49:00.000+12:00

I have been rumbled by Neil. I am indeed back from holiday. I suppose I should tell you all about it.

But I wont.

I just can't be bothered.

If anyone is really interested, then they will have to vote for one of the following topics because I am not about to write a blow by blow account of the whole thing.

1. Slugs and Snails
2. Museum of 'Machines'
3. 'Smiley Girl'
4. E Grade German
5. Cherub city
6. Monster Wasps
7. White water shocker
8. The angina platter
9. Steel Gloves
10. Broken Skies

Take your pick. Go nuts. See if I care.

Holiday

2005-08-16T22:17:00.000+12:00

Having been fairly sickened by having to read about everyone else's holiday, I thought I'd do likewise. Therefore the world will have to do without my enlightened musings for a while. Meanwhile, here's some easy listening music.

World Peace

2005-08-13T02:50:00.000+12:00

It has been another week of very little happening in my life. I've had a fair amount of stress though. Many of the people I have to work with get very angry with me from time to time, and I am supposed to pass that anger on to the people who work for me. I am not very good at it. I can never really tell when it is that I am supposed to start shouting. Even if I get the timing of this right, I am never really sure what to shout. Being a Christian means that I do not have access to the same kind of explicit repertoire that the other guys on site have, so I find myself looking at them with one eyebrow raised, coming out with something like ‘I am really very disappointed in you chaps’. Maybe building sites should be equipped with a naughty corner to which I could send them.

It strikes me that anger and discord are a pretty big problem generally. I am always hearing about people who cannot get on with their spouse, people who won’t share their sweets, and countries that won’t stop their nuclear enrichment programme. It all results in a world full of people getting thoroughly ticked off with each other.

I know the answer to this, but getting people to accept it is hard. I believe we all know the answer if we are really honest with ourselves. I believe that we were all born into this world with a deep, simple knowledge. In each of our souls, there is a soft spot; a need which is never quite met; a longing to find the source of peace and harmony. Some people go their whole lives never quite allowing themselves to acknowledge the truth; too afraid to taste that which they have craved since their first stirrings in the womb.

Those of you who know me well will know where I’m heading. There is a well-trodden path to my message. Of course, I speak of none other than apple pie. Who among us has not sat back on a Sunday afternoon after a bowl of apple pie and felt the warmth; the glowing contentment; the sense of everything falling into place; the feeling of everything being as it should be. There is simply not enough apple pie in the world.

I really think that there is vast untapped potential for the use of apple pie in international diplomacy. With so much wrong with the world and so much conflict, there is a need for people to sit down and relax with a bowlful of warm, sweet appley goodness. Who could imagine Arab and Jew confronting each other across a negotiating table, shouting murderous accusations at each other, when on the same table, in front of each party, there sat a large steaming bowl of apple pie and ice-cream. I tell you it could not happen.

If I were secretary general of the UN, I would call a conference. I would get all the world leaders together in that great big horseshoe-shaped room, and I would get my mum to bake a huge apple pie. Then I would commission Hagen Das to provide their finest vanilla ice-cream. I would not allow talks to commence until we had all sat around for a bit, listened to some chilled music, played a few games of twister, and eaten copious amounts of apple pie.

Then we’d sort out world peace.

I have discovered the secrets of time travel.

2005-08-08T19:46:00.000+12:00

It came to me this week. In the same way as Newton, watching something simple, everyday and taken for granted (a falling apple) devised a great theory, I too have found a solution to one of the greatest problems of quantum physics lying right under my nose.

It came to me as I was in bed, directly after turning off my alarm clock. It was a work day, but I remained in bed awhile, contemplating wormholes, space-time curvature and breakfast. It occurred to me that none of these things were necessary for time travel at all, because in the few moments that I had contemplated these things, I had managed to jump forward a clear twenty minutes in time!

As we know a true scientific theory is one which is reliable. Reliability is tested by the ability to gain the same results when repeated under the same conditions. Therefore, I was thrilled when the next morning, immediately following my alarm, I was able to skip forwards a clear 18 minutes simply by rubbing my eyes and yawning a bit. During the next few mornings, I extended my research, each time getting similar results and strengthening my theory. I began to think of some wider implications.

Taking this theory to the next stage, I considered a spacecraft capable of forward time travel. The vessel would consist of a ship filled with numerous small bedrooms. In each room there would be a slightly sleep deprived individual who has to report to a given workplace for menial duties at a given time. These individuals would each be given an alarm clock with which to ensure their promptness at work.

Now here's the clever bit. The times would be staggered between each individual in such a way as to ensure a steady stream of people waking up and immediately contemplating a day's boredom at work. In this way, the period of maximum time distortion (the 'snooze-button zone', as I call it) can be prolonged indefinitely, massively accelerating time for those aboard the ship. Those people waking up to the prospect of another day at work would in effect be the engines of the ship, driving it through the fabric of time by various and inventive methods of procrastination.

'But!', I hear you cry, 'What about all the people who would have to go to work and be bored? Surely time would drag out for them and reverse the effects of the snooze button zone?'. Well here's the tricky bit from an ethical perspective. These people are left to report to their workstations at the appointed time. When they have arrived (and not before, or the effect will be lost), they are told that there has been an administrative error, and that actually it is their day off. These people are then free to enjoy games of intergalactic hide and seek, or zero G golf, or whatever their favourite pass-time is. As we know, weekend time does tend to push along at a faster rate than normal time, so this would only serve to enhance the snooze button effect.

The above theory admittedly only accounts for time acceleration. What about slowing down time? Well the theory for this is a little less developed. I do however have preliminary designs for a ship similarly equipped with many bedrooms. However, in this case the rooms would be filled with hundreds of young children. A significant part of the ship would resemble a huge living room the size of several football pitches. This room would be filled with thousands of presents, and the ship's clock would be set to 6 o'clock in the evening of 24th December. I'll leave you to figure out the rest....

And now..... some poetry

2005-08-04T20:53:00.000+12:00

I thought I'd regale you all with a little ditty about routine computer maintenance.

Defragmenting my hard-drive,
40% to go.
I've not done this in ages,
That's why my machine's so slow.

Updating my virus protection;
I think I may have been tricked.
I got a mail 'from my mum',
With a link to 'some really hot chicks'.

Checking the thing for spyware,
Watching the progress bar.
'Cos I keep getting these pop-ups,
That tell me I've won a car.

Rooting through all my old files,
Deleting as much as I dare.
I dream of a clean machine,
On which I can play solitare.

J. Albery. Aug 2005

Compulsion to post

2005-08-03T23:32:00.000+12:00

At this point, I would like to refer readers to the content of my first post. However it has been almost a week since my last offering so I feel compelled to post something.

This morning I ate bran flakes. I do this most mornings. If readers at this point would glance at the 'movement monitor' to the right hand side of this post, you will see a very good reason for doing so.

As I have many years of bran flake eating experience behind me, I feel that this is one area where I can express an opinion with a certain degree of authority.

Bran flakes in common with many other breakfast cereals have an optimum consumption point - a sweet spot if you like, where they have absorbed just enough of the milk to be moist and chewable whilst not becoming stodgy or soggy. This point is quickly reached: much of the absorption occurs during the simple process of pouring the milk over the cereal. Generally by the time I have sat down in front of the TV and found which news programme to watch, the flakes are about 'ripe' for consumption.

Now here's the interesting thing. The flakes will continue to absorb milk while you eat. Therefore the time I take in consuming the whole bowl of bran flakes is crucial in the overall enjoyment factor of the meal. This is in turn related of course to the initial size of the bowl, density of the cereal (you tend to get smaller flakes at the bottom of the packet, leading to greater density in the bowl leading in turn to a weightier spoonful and a longer consumption time, but we're getting onto advanced stuff here) and how appealing Natasha Kaplinski is on any given morning.

But wait! There are further variables. While I am eating, sugar from the flakes is being dissolved into the milk, leaving a sweeter tasting liquid. As the quantity in the bowl diminishes, the milk to flake ratio increases, until I am left with a kind of soup of sweet milk with a few flakes floating in it. This sweetening of the milk must have an influence, as the idea of eating a small puddle of milk with a few soggy flakes in it, when considered before breakfast commences is not very appealing to say the least. Yet after tucking away 80% of a bowl of branflakes, I am happy to consume the said puddle, and indeed even quite relish the prospect.

It is indeed a strange world.

Next week I might try to express the above mathematically. I have also been working on advanced techniques for plucking nostril hairs. More on that soon.

Overkill?

2005-07-28T21:27:00.000+12:00

Now that Ian has a custom pedal board, I figured I'd go the whole way and make him a custom guitar. And you never can have enough versatility.

The Board Arrives

2005-07-25T20:17:00.000+12:00

The pedal board arrived from Germany last week. I had engineered it down to a fraction of a millimetre, so I was rather worried about whether it would fit the pedals as intended. However, when Mr C brought his pedals round to try, they fitted as precisely as if they'd grown there. After the application of a little industrial strength velcro, we tried shaking the board by the handle. The pedals did not budge! Those Germans are clever chaps.

The little squigle in the centre of the board is in fact Ian's signature. We were able to scan it into the design, and the CNC machine traced it. Overkill perhaps, but it makes a pleasant change from having 'Fender' or 'Marshall' scrawled over everything.

The Clark Custom Pedal Board. See it here most Sundays.

Any other suggestions as to how I can misuse industrial machinery gratefully received.

Posting fodder

2005-07-21T19:52:00.000+12:00

I suppose I' d better post something then to fill this big blank space on my blog. My Brother in Law asked me to make him a board on which he could mount his guitar pedals. I decided to get my contacts in Germany involved so that I could make something that precisely matched the shape of everything he wanted to mount. The guys in Germany have the kind of machinery which can machine HPL material (very hard industrial stuff) with incredible accuracy.

Anyway, I had to design the thing on CAD. This gets sent to the guys in Germany who put it directly into their machines which then spit out the product. Clever eh? I will post more pictures of the real thing as soon as I receive it.

Against my better judgement....

2005-07-18T21:30:00.000+12:00

Don't know what you lot are expecting me to say. I have absolutely nothing of interest to post here. Therefore some (or all) of what you read here may be ficticious. Also some of the spelling may be somewhat suspect. For although I am good at making stuff up, I am too lazy to read through what I have written and use a dictionary.