What to put in the Christmas letter?

I might have to concentrate on the garden. I can talk about how all the things in it look green. It's a raised garden. Sorry, just thinking out loud here. I used Macrocarpa to build the sides. I could start with something like...

Hi from the Nuova Lazio Prowses.
As Christmas approaches we're all back together in Nuova Lazio - all four of us.
The big news this year is that I built a garden. I guess you could say that we Prowses are doing our small bit to battle climate change.
It's a raised garden with Macrocarpa sides. I nailed the sides together. With nails. Some of the nails were quite big because the Macrocarpa is thick.

Everything in the garden is green and has grown pretty well do far. Except for the tomatoes. We used compost and special Yates 'dirt' in the garden. We can recognise quite a few of the plants but some of them taste a little bitter. In actual fact, it's easier to get leafy vegetables from the supermarket than it is to grow them. It's probably cheaper too. There are no tomatoes on the tomato plants yet. A bit of red in the garden would be nice. I'm getting tired of looking at green. Especially the green bits that don't look like plants that I know. What a pity that leafy plants don't come in more colours. Maybe people who invent different varieties could put dyes into them?
This post is only intended to be a work in progress.

Wednesday morning.

The year is running out - soon be time to think about writing a Christmas letter/skite sheet. I'll probably mention the fact that readership of Richard's Bass Bag is at an all time high. I could mention building and planting a garden. Maybe I could mention my triumphant performance at The Jimmie?

That's me in front of the coat hangers. Okay, maybe it's best not to mention The Jimmie. Anyway, The Jimmie is a silly name for a restaurant because it sounds like a slang for 'penis'.

I got an email yesterday advertising an event called "Bass Camp '10". It's planned for the last weekend in January and will be in Martinborough. Get that big bass out, this sounds like an event not to be missed.
Oops, look at the time! I'd better go!

So, what is art?

Man of Errors has long been involved in writing about hit songs since his birth in 1973. I think he seeks a parallel or a commentary that will define his time on this planet that we call Jasper (aka Earth). He's a lot smarter than me, so I've probably misread his intention. Akish, of 'The Philistine' fame, likes things to be black and white.
I'm a fickle old man and sometimes reality scares me - like today when I was faced with the possibility of other people taking control of my existence on this plane and poking their fingers into my innards.
As it turns out, I was spared - left to face a few more weeks of abuse at Nuova Lazio High.
Tonight I felt very tired, so I put on a CD of my favourite bass player - the late Niels-Henning Orsted Pederson.
One track, This Is All I Ask, really got to me. It's basically a conversation between Phil Woods' alto sax and Niels-Henning's double bass. Phil's sax screams out like an anguished voice. Because the bass is my own voice, I have trouble describing the double bass in this conversation - perhaps I'm too close to it? Perhaps it's a male response? I don't know.
Anyway, these are two great musicians. God (sorry to the deity who uses that name), it feels good to be alive tonight and not to have my life summed up just yet.
It's great music, and art, that makes me want to stick around. Oh, and family.
This Is All I ask.
Thank you, powers that be.

Life and Death.

One thing's for sure, old Mr Death is going to get us all in the end.
I had to go to the hospital today as the first step in a possible hernia operation. I don't want to kill my story before it even gets going but it turns out that my hernia is very small and the health system will monitor it every six months. So, no operation in the foreseeable future - Richard lives to draw another bow on that big fiddle, to admire another sunset or two, to drink an occasional glass of chardonnay.
I guess I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and every visit to a doctor soon becomes a tussle between life and death. Who knows, the seeds of my destruction on this plane may already be planted - we all live under that cloud. So, for now, I carry on.
When one thinks about one's own mortality, things like work lose their thump. Time to turn the mind to bass playing.
Talking about music, I mentioned to the young doctor, at the hospital, that I was a music teacher. She immediately explained how she had struggled trying to learn the guitar. I explained to her the easiest way to approach guitar chords and, at the same time, hoped that she wasn't the surgeon. I mean, if she can't get her hands around a few simple chords, how does she expect to patch up my billy button when it's all hanging out? All surgeons should have to show that they are reasonably proficient on the guitar and that they can hit a tennis ball with a racket before anyone lets them loose with a scalpel.

Monday morning.

The walk to Petone was successfully completed yeterday. It took exactly two hours to get from my place in Nuova Lazio to Robert's front door in Petone. Unfortunately Robert wasn't home. That's a long walk to find that someone isn't home.

I'm going for a walk today.

I'm going to walk to Petone. It's should be about 10 or 11km. There's a big hill in the middle of the walk. I might pop in and see if Robert is home. I deactivated my Weirdoland account this morning - I got tired of all the friends; besides, Bassbook is going very well (see the link on this site). The rain has stopped. Some funny person called
'123 123' left a comment with a link to scantily clad ladies on my last post. It's a funny old world - I don't get the link between rain and scantily clad ladies, unless 123 123 was thinking of wet t-shirt competitions. How very 1980s of him/her! I'm doing some practice before my walk. Oh, and I've put a picture of a nun on this post to balance out 123 123's naughty pictures.

That was today in brief.

Rain.

It's funny when you wake up and it's raining. You went to bed to a clear sky with a lolly scramble of stars. Now everything has changed. The rain has come. It's the noise that alerts you first. Then you open a curtain to confirm what you already know. The road looks darker and reflects a dimming street light in the grove. You expect to see cloud, that's the way it works. You don't really take time to wonder at the point of the rain. It's just there. Its effect will be minimal. Not a good day for a wedding in the park, or a game of tennis. These days, though, rain has lost its power. Except if you're a cyclist, or a garden dwelling creature. The sheep down near Poole Crescent don't seem to mind the rain. What choice have they got though? They have no shelter. They eat on, and they stare. The ducks seem largely unaffected, though who really knows? Passing cars seem louder. You can hear their tyres more clearly. You can hear them over the sound of the rain. Rain sounds like tin, in the same way that a human voice sounds like a larynx. Sometimes the rain hesitates in its conversation. Hesitates long enough for someone to enter a car or empty a letterbox. That's rain's little game, because not everyone escapes its next sentence.

Nigel and Brent were happy to be out of the rain. They had not planned to enter the house but an open window, when you're out in the rain, can be very inviting. Nigel found some food in the kitchen - left overs from tea, he assumed. Brent had gone through into the living room. He always seemed to be noisy.
"Quiet Brent! You'll wake the whole bloody household!" Nigel whispered so loudly that it sounded more like an airy shout.
Then that old fear overcame Nigel. He had to get out. It was a fear of being trapped and it always happened inside houses. He could see the outside, but there was a closed window in the way. He smacked right into it. Fortunately it didn't break. Before he could think, think his situation through, he was tearing around the kitchen. Brent had settled against a wall and wondered what was up with Nigel.
Then a bedroom door opened and a man in a t-shirt and pyjama pants came out. He didn't seem to notice Brent as he headed to the kitchen. Nigel was terrified and tried to hide behind a venetian blind. He felt trapped between the glass and the blind; he was overcome with claustrophobia.
The man in the t-shirt looked his way and filled the electric kettle. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. Nigel wondered what he was going to do. There seemed no way out. He tried to break the window, but it was too thick. Meanwhile Brent was still leaning against the wall. He heard the toilet flush, but he wasn't really thinking things through. After all, he'd found a warm dry place. He took time to survey his surroundings. He noticed the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. Why didn't people clean them out? He hated cobwebs, and he hated spiders. His old fantasy popped into his head. That old fantasy where he zoomed into a cobweb and smashed a spider to bits. Blat! Take that you ugly beast!
The jug was about to boil when the man in the t-shirt returned to the kitchen.
Nigel called out, from behind the blind,
"Sorry. Sorry we're here. I'm just trying to get out. I won't come back, I promise!"
The man ignored Nigel and set about making a cup of instant coffee.
Nigel wasn't stupid, he knew the man was aware of his presence, but why wasn't he doing anything?
Then it happened! The venetian blind went zooming up. Nigel bolted past the man and through the kitchen door. He was in another room and panicking. There was no way out. He scampered around looking for an exit. Then his worst nightmare happened. He could feel his skin itching; then burning. He had to get out and quickly! He threw himself at a glass pain. The next thing he knew he was on his back and squirming. He could see the man pointing something at him. He saw the mist.
"Brent! Brent! Please help!" These were to be his last words.
Nigel could hear the rain hitting the iron roof, he could see large drops that had stuck to the glass. Then it was over.