CHRISTMAS LETTER 2022 from Willis Grove.

Good morning. Okay, sorry, but that greeting is too specific. I mean, maybe you’re reading this in the evening or the afternoon? These Christmas letters can be tricky to write. Do I tell you everything that happened this year, set out under monthly headings? Probably, like most of you, we’ve had wonderful and sad things happen this year. I’m also wondering if it was the best option to add ‘from Willis Grove’ to the title. Well, sorry but it’s done now, so you’ll just have to live with it.

As many of you will know, I live with two women – Steph and Shelley*. It is great living with these two ladies. One ‘advantage’ being that I often get to fold a lot of women’s clothing (after doing the washing and drying) and try to work out who the hell each item belongs to. If you want your patience truly tested, try putting some of those items on a clothes hanger! I guess that this is why us men just wear shirts and trousers. Oh yes, and socks and underwear.

Okay, to kick things off, I could tell you about my violin and double bass strings (in quite a bit of detail) but both Steph and Shelley seem to find this topic really boring. Probably best if I avoid that one. Let’s have a think.

Well, I added the Willis Grove bit because that’s where we live. I could have used our combined surname (all three of us have the same one) but I was trying to be creative. Willis Grove, as some of you will know, is in Wainuiomata, Lower Hutt. I also call Wainuiomata ‘Nuova Lazio’ because it sounds more exotic. Well, I’m not the first person around here to rename things. Lower Hutt is often called Hutt City because, let’s face it, Lower Hutt makes our city sound like it’s only half a city. I mean, if you have a ‘Lower’ there has got to be an ‘Upper’, which means that Lower Hutt is half a place. Not very flash. Certainly not on the same playing field as places like Rome or San Francisco or Paris.

Sorry, I know, you want to hear about something that happened this year. You want information. Okay, I’ll pick a couple of months at random and see where it goes.

JUNE.

We have a storeroom and it’s pretty full of things – not helped by Steph having four vintage suitcases. Why she bought them I have absolutely no idea. Maybe she was planning to time travel back to the 1950s? Anyway, I could see that we needed some serious shelving. I set to work. I finished up buying two sets of metal shelves. I got them home and found the assembly instructions – I had never assembled metal shelves before. The first thing I read in the instructions was,

“Rubber hammer not included.”

I guess it would have been handy to have had a sign on the outside of the shelving package saying,

“You will need a rubber hammer to assemble these shelves.”

Anyway, I drove back to the shop in Hutt City and bought one. The rubber hammer is a very interesting tool. It has a wooden handle and the ‘hitting’ bit is made of very hard rubber that is almost as hard as metal, but enough about that. Let’s try another month.

SEPTEMBER.

I opened a cupboard and noticed the rubber hammer propped up against one corner of the space. It looked quite majestic. The black rubber ‘hitting’ bit seemed to have a sort of strange authority about it. I thought back to the time we had worked together in June. We had been a good team and I only injured one of my fingers. Fortunately, I was still able to play my string instruments.

I picked up the rubber hammer and carried it around for a while. What else could I use it for? I guessed that it would be a good weapon in a home invasion – not that we’ve ever had any of those.

Hammering nails probably wouldn’t be its strongest point, unless the nails had huge flat heads. I remembered that my brother had used one, as a youngster, when he had a holiday job at Ford Motors putting in windscreens. I guess at Christmas we could set up a game of ‘throw the rubber hammer’. Hey, that idea could take off! Maybe I should buy up all the rubber hammers in Hutt City and sell them as Christmas Day entertainment for all the family?

NOVEMBER.

The rubber hammer has been back in the cupboard for a while now. We have had no home invasions. Please don’t worry. I’m not giving up on finding a use for my rubber headed friend. Who knows what 2023 could hold for him?

Well, that’s about it from our family for 2022.

Shelley, Steph and Richard (of RBB) wish you all a safe and happy festive season.

Let’s hope that the big day is a sunny one.

Ciao tutti.







* their real names

Hangin' out with a mate.

 

A post for DOUBTING THOMAS.

 I get a lot of silly comments like this on Richard's Bass Bag.*

My reply...

* the original bass bagging site

Simon and the rubber hammer.

 Summer was three days away and Simon, a staunch reader of 'the bag', wondered how Summer could be represented.

The closest rhyme with Summer, that popped into his mind, was 'bummer' and he didn't want to go there. For a start, it sort of encouraged the prediction that this Summer was going to be wet. He knew that people in and around Nuova Lazio were getting over 'wet'. Summer was a time of hope - for sun and warmth.

While this picture might have done the job,
for Simon it was too obvious.

Simon liked to think outside the square.

He was well aware of the image that had been used for Spring and its obvious association that even a blogging team like The Curmudgeon Ink could have thought up. Simon decided to pass the task over to his unconscious mind while he just carried on with his ordinary activities.

Simon's immediate concern was to erect more storage space in his spare room and, to this effect, he had bought some metal shelving.

Assembly required.

He carefully lifted the large bits out of a big cardboard box. He found the assembly instructions. One sentence caught his attention.

"RUBBER HAMMER NOT INCLUDED."

"Why didn't they make that known at the hardware store?" he thought.

He returned to the store to find that rubber hammers were not expensive. He was very impressed by the firmness of the rubber - it was almost like steel. As he drove home with his new acquisition, he wondered what else it could be used for once the shelving had been assembled.

It would certainly make a wonderful defensive weapon. His imagination took over and he imagined thugs breaking into his house. They didn't pay much attention to the little rubber hammer he was holding until he started breaking noses.

When Simon got home, he noticed that the house was cold. So, three days before the start of December, he turned two heaters on.

UNHEARD OF!

What better to represent these crazy times than a rubber hammer?

Spring into the church shop.

 Okay, it's Sunday and you all know what that means.

Yes, that's right, a visit to the church shop.

Robert turned up a little late from cleaning the Presbyterian church - he'd been looking for graven images again but no luck. He said a very rushed decade of the rosary and headed off to open up the church shop. He was surprised to find that the actress nun who played Sister Joachim in a film had already opened up and had made a big change to the stock. The counter and shelves were covered with springs!

They were everywhere!

Sister Joachim (not the real one) had been busy arranging them in different sizes.

Robert wondered if you could attach them to your shoes and jump to Heaven.

But really all of this made no sense.

Then he remembered reading about a blogger in the far north who had radically improved the performance of his pop-up toaster.

Sister Joachim (not the real one) had obviously read about this and saw an opportunity to raise some money for the missions.

"Thank you, Mother Mary, for giving
me the idea!"

Robert remembered the spider incident. "Another thing about Advent is that Catholics should go to confession. I went after Mass. As I sat down in front of Father, I saw a spider about to crawl under his Abe. I knelt down and flicked it away. "A spider" I said "A white tail". He stood up and crushed it with his foot."

Were the clergy overreacting to things these days? 

Couldn't the spider have been swept into a cup and taken outside and released?

He, as one of God's creatures, wanders into a church and is crushed by one of God's employees.

Not much of a welcome to the church.

Anyway, on a happier note, the springs were selling well.

Peter was naked.

 Peter was naked, except for a white singlet, a pair of old rugby shorts, some jandals and his glasses.

In his right hand he held a spring, and he was happy.

He'd had the toaster in pieces for hours now, on the kitchen table, and he just couldn't get the pop-up device to work. Now the solution was held tightly in his hand.

The Old Girl thought he was mad, and she was tired of him wreaking things. The kitchen radio sat in the woodshed in a hundred pieces, the fire screen in the lounge now leant on the fireplace framing because its legs had been taken off and put somewhere, and only Robert's god knows what happened to the electric can opener!

"If I can just squeeze this spring under the pop-up device, it'll give more power when the button is pushed." Peter was very pleased with his analytical skills.

Then there was a knock at the back door which led into the kitchen. 

"Answer it matey!" yelled The Old Girl from her office.

"Sheesh!" thought Peter, "Doesn't she know what I'm doing here?"

Peter decided that it wasn't a wise move to cross The Old Girl when she was working, so he put down the spring and moved towards the door. He opened it. There was a nun standing there.

"What you steerin' at old timer?" said the nun in an Irish accent.

"Sorry, but we don't give at the door." said Peter.

The nun pulled out a big ruler and slapped him on the hand.

"I'll not be taken' any of your nonsense, now get out of my way, I'm comin' in!"

"But who are you?"

"I'm Sister Mary and I'm gonna tell you a ting* or two!"

"Sister Mary who?"

Sister Mary whacked Peter around the legs with the ruler. It was a big solid red ruler - made more for hitting legs than measuring things. Peter almost started to cry but managed to control himself.

"Yes Sister." he said and then he sat down on a kitchen chair.

Sister Mary stood above him. It was clear that she meant business. Peter seemed to morph into his long forgotten five year old self.

"Now get your legs under that table and get your book out! Don't ya waste my time by askin' for a pencil!"

Peter was saved because there was a pencil and a note pad nearby.

"Now, you be writin' this down! Quickly now! It is none of my fecking business how nuns are named. Write it! When I offend the names of nuns, I offend God, the maker of Heaven and Earth. Write that!"

Peter was writing furiously. How could he have been so stupid to take on and criticise Catholic nuns? 

Sister Mary hit him again with the big red ruler, just for good measure (no pun intended).

* * *

Let's leave Peter there to think about the mistakes he has made in this life.

Okay, you want some examples?

• 'Choosing' to attend a Catholic primary school.
• Stealing communion hosts while at college.
• Taking Tony's advice on how to pick up women (girls).
• Not seeing the advantage of putting lemonade into sour red wine.
• Getting involved with the delivery crew at Murray Roberts.
• Starting far too many blogs that he can't realistically maintain.

Yes, the list goes on, but let's leave it there for today.

The poor guy needs to get away safely from Sister Mary first.

"I'm watching you Peter and I'm
ready to whack you again. Now
fix that bloody toaster! You have
displeased the creator! Go reread
your Catechism."

* thing

Peter springs back!

It had just turned midnight when Peter suddenly opened his eyes. He had heard an inner voice talk to his intellect in the way Angels do. "You are to meet the Lord now".

In an instant an angel assumed his place in the bed recreating an image of Peter asleep. Other angels took hold of him and whisked him away to the throne of God, he looked back at the Holy Seraphim, there was nothing between him and the Holy Trinity.

The light was blinding. One ray of that light would have lit the entire universe.

He heard three persons talking. They were rejoicing in mankind but seemed sad about the ingratitude of most of them.
"What shall we do?" one voice asked.
"They do not deserve us," said another voice.
"Let us consult our beautiful spouse".


Mary the Queen of Heaven prostrated herself before them and begged mercy for mankind.
Peter agreed and said "Lord, would you not spare mankind for the sake of my fellow bloggers?"


The Lord discussed this among themselves and said "Yes, I will spare mankind for the sake of three bloggers".

Then Brother Benedict popped his face around the corner.

"Nice cock Rob, but I'm afraid you'll be spending eternity in Hell."

"Why?' Robert shouted in his mind.

I mean, here was a guy who had spent years reciting every Catholic 'poem'. The rosary beads he had bought were equivalent to a Gibson guitar. 

"Don't buy into what the angels say," said Benny the Bee, as he'd been called by students in his 'teaching' days, "they're dancing to their own tango. Unfortunately, you didn't make the cut. Hey, think of how many people are trying to get into heaven! It's popular."

Robert thought, "Why did God make so many people?" 

Was God functioning like Brother Benedict's cock?

After all, God had made Benny the Bee. It wasn't hard to figure that God had some responsibility in that. At some point Brother Benedict said, "Hey, no one's perfect!"

Robert simply replied, "I love you Brother Benedict."

Peter slipped away. He looked for a computer then just disappeared. His blog would have to wait.

In Spring grass grows fast in Himatangi, as Sister Mary knows.

 

I had to spring into my car very early 
this morning and head to Himatangi.

I was on the road by 6.30am and arrived around 8.20am - using Prowse speed.

The grass had really taken off - much faster than Prowse speed.

I've hired a guy who is going to sort things out so we can eventually sell the place. 

Big job.

* * *

When I started school in 1957, 
the nuns dressed something like this.

Nuns in the Society of Mary always had Mary in their name. For example, Sister Mary Joachim.

The actress who played Sister Mary Joachim
in the film 'The Youth of Saint Robert'.

At Saint Vincent de Paul Primary, in 1957, the two teachers were Sister Mary and Sister Emilion. I want to stress, for that very old blogger Peter the Curmudgeon, that they were never called Sister Mary Mary and Sister Mary Emilion.

NEVER!

Sister Mary was Irish and Sister Emilion was Australian. 

Sister Mary was certainly not the nicest person I have met in my life.

CERTAINLY NOT!

Peter the Curmudgeon has made a lot of noise lately about Sister Mary's name being wrong. I'm surprised at his confidence in being correct when, at this time, it was rare for him to step outside Newtown.

The actress who played Sister Mary
in the film 'The Youth of Saint Robert'.

It must be remembered too that Saint Robert's early life happened before Peter the Curmudgeon started stealing communion hosts. 

Sister Mary was a bossy old tart who could have gone on to become Pope Mary I, the first woman pope. In reality, she didn't.

Dry Spring.

 

Oops, again!

There was white everywhere. Warren thought that maybe it wasn't a good idea to always head towards the light, as he and his kind had a strong tendency to do. It seemed like a peaceful environment, so Warren decided to hunker down for the night. He was woken a couple of times during the night, but it was just people going to the toilet. He'd been in a place like this once before, so these were not unfamiliar sounds - a few sudden thunderous sounds, what sounded like someone had left a tap on, the sound of paper rolling and then what sounded like a waterfall. The final sound was like something being lowered. Warren was soon back asleep.

From 4am, though Warren was oblivious to the time, the sun started to change its intensity every hour. At 7am it was completely light. Then, as Warren, attempted to wake, it started. Steam everywhere! The white surfaces were getting slippery and there was a very big object near a source of scolding water. Warren decided that it was time to fly but his wings didn't want to seem to work, and he was very afraid of slipping into a torrent of water that had formed below the white ridge that was his only haven now. 

Suddenly things went quiet and he had a moment to breath, to think. There was a naked man in front of him. He was putting on what looked like rugby shorts and a grey t-shirt. Then he seemed to be trying to get Warren to stand on a big piece of cardboard. Warren tried to move away but his body was a mess. He couldn't seem to get himself untangled.

In his panicked state he was sort of aware that he was laying on the big piece of cardboard. Then the environment changed and the cardboard had been placed among plants and grass. If he could rest here for a while, and didn't meet anyone who was hungry, Warren felt he would be strong enough to fly off and find his way home. 

Wet Spring.

 

No, sorry, I meant something more like this.

I'm trying to get our property tidied up, but it keeps raining. The spring rain is making the lawns grow fast. I also have a big project trying to remove ivy from our back fence. I'm 2/3 there but I'm wanting to get stuck into the worst part. This ivy is like a plague. It climbs up trees and even manages to get under the house. Hey, sorry if this sounds like a post TC would write.

Hey, that's not Peter.
That's Ron the builder!

Ah, that's better. I use the word 'better'
in its widest sense here and not
necessarily to show an improvement.

The rain comes and goes, then it comes again - I think I'll avoid a comparison for that statement.

I wonder if Danie Craven's picture is still in the church shop, or if somebody bought it?

Sister Strapper was happy with her purchase. The young man in the church shop had let her have it for a couple of dollars. He had also thrown in a ham sandwich. She intended to hang Danie over her bed, on the hook that Jesus had occupied for many years. She just felt that she needed a stronger man looking over her. 

Sister Strapper was no spring chicken.

Spring chickens.

Her heyday had been spent in classrooms in primary schools in the 1960s and 70s. She had taken the name 'Strapper' from a little known saint (I'm sure Peter is planning to add this saint to his series on obscure saints) who lived in southern England in the 1600s. Mary Strapper. Saint Mary was canonized by mistake when a canon fell on her from a rather high battlement. The name served Sister Strapper well during her teaching career because she basically strapped any child who moved.

At the time (1600s), the cardinals in Rome were not happy with the way Saint Mary Strapper had become a saint and fought to block her canonization. A young catholic convert named Brenton Hornet turned up and argued her case. He had a unique way of arguing for the time - he used big words that only a few people had ever heard and spoke very quickly. In the end, just to shut him up, the cardinals apologized and let the canonization go through. This is where the term 'Catholic apologist' originated.

On a return visit to the church shop, Sister Strapper reported to the young man who gave her a sandwich that she was sleeping much better since the picture of Danie went up. She donated the picture of the other guy to the shop.

Domenica.

 Peter was late for church. He hopped out of his dented car and ran the last 30 metres to the Whangarei Heads Presbyterian Church. He entered through the main door, on first look he saw no graven images, and found a spot in the second pew from the door. 

 

A lot further south Robert had cleaned a Presbyterian church, noted the lack of graven images, attended Catholic mass, said the rosary, and was now eating a ham sandwich in the church shop.

Father Michael had given a brilliant sermon this morning. He had used lots of big words, to make himself sound intelligent and to make people assume that he was talking sense, and Robert had nearly forgotten the unwritten rules and given him a standing ovation. 

Mrs. Murphy had brought the ham sandwiches into the church shop to sell to raise money for the missions. She'd gone to help Father Michael take his frock off and Robert, the only worker in the church shop, had taken the opportunity to pinch one. "Well," he thought, "it's not as bad as doing a ram raid."

Peter realised that Robert was right - there were no graven images to be seen in a Presbyterian church. He was looking for one for part four of his series on more obscure saints. He was aware that he was running out of ideas - a quick post on small horseshoe washers had made that painfully apparent to his two readers - so he had decided to go on the road in a search for novel props.  He wondered if Robert sold graven images in his church shop.

Old Mr. Watson had brought a picture of Danie Craven into the church shop.

The poor old chap had heard Father Uburars talking about graven images in a sermon a few weeks back and got confused - he had probably left his hearing aid at home. Father Uburars had said, "We need more graven images in this church." Now it was up to Robert to deal with it. The week before Mr. Watson had brought in two packets of cigarettes which Robert had hidden under the counter.

Robert decided to hang the picture of Danie up, even though he represented a game where grown men threw a ball around. Hey, but John never said anything bad about rugby in the bible and quite a few rugby players still pointed up to Heaven when they scored a try. Little did they know that a god who doesn't seem to give a shit about things like cancer and aids probably isn't wasting time watching rugby.

Peter gave up on his search for graven images and decided to go and look for washers in Mitre 10.  

Lasagna or Lasagne?

"The word lasagna itself refers to the pasta sheet, and of course you use more than one sheet in the dish, so arguably lasagne is more correct. But in reality, both the singular and the plural are seen in Italy, and it is probably lasagna rather than lasagne that has become an English word."

We stayed in a motel in Wellington last night. The people running the motel were very nice but, we decided to have a wine, we were confronted with three glasses.

We'd taken some Church Road Chardonnay  2022, but I wondered if the three sizes were for different qualities of chardonnay - Marlborough? East Coast? Cleanskin? Church Road? Maybe The Wine Guy will know?

I didn't take my violin into Wellington so, as I waited for Shelley to get ready (as I often do), I needed something to fill in time. I found these three wise comments...

That last picture has captured the time on my phone and how much battery I have left - a bonus for you readers!

Ciao tutti.

Venerdì.

 No church this morning, so I'll get some practice done.

I'll start with some violin today. Then it'll be double bass time.

At about 1.30pm we're heading into Wellington - Newtown, to be precise. We're staying the night in a motel by the Basin Reserve. Shelley has a writer friend who is talking (with a couple of others) at the Newtown Library. Maybe we'll hear some music afterwards?

When I was at school, we used to call Newtown Oldtown. Well, it certainly is one of the older parts of Wellington, and a very interesting place. It'll be fun to spend an evening there.

Well, that's about it for this morning.

Egg on toast.

Ciao tutti.

Last whine for the night.

 No TC, I'm not starting a wine blog. However, I can tell you the three things that can go wrong with a bottle of white wine:

• You drop it, as I did in a 4 Square store a few weeks ago, and it smashes.
• You pick up your bottle, for a last glass, and it's empty.
• You buy a bottle and some idiot forgot to put the wine in the bottle.

Okay, that's me finished with writing about wine.

* * *

Okay, so I'm getting ready to do some bass recordings. Here are a few pictures of me practising.

And here's an interesting thing that I found.

That's it from me today.

Ciao tutti.