Robin Alexander Gregory's Blog, page 10
March 23, 2018
What’s in a name?
What’s in a name?
… the sad story of a man washed overboard…
Now, I love New Zealand. Really, I do. It’s like the Creator (insert your preferred deity here) spent four days working on it, only to be told that the world was, in fact, a rush job and that the rest of it had to be done in time to meet the weekend post.
Despite my unbridled passion for the ‘Land of the Long White Cloud’, there is one thing that I can’t get my head around and that is the names that were given to places when the country was first colonised. Now, I’m sure that others have written about this many times in the past, but I wanted to share my thoughts with you, just to finally get it off my chest as much as anything else.
First of all, consider where most of the people who colonised New Zealand (or invaded it depending on your point of view) came from. Yes, that’s right, the UK. The place that has given us such a wide variety of strange, unusual and downright rude place names that I couldn’t possibly include them all here, without blocking up the entire Internet. But by way of example, consider the following: Chipping Sodbury (South Gloucestershire), Upper Slaughter (Cotswolds), Swell (Cornwall), Scratchy Bottom (Dorset), Bishops Itchington (Staffordshire) and of course, Sandy Balls (Hampshire).
And then there’s the Australians. They live just next door to the Kiwis and boy; did they really go to town when it came to naming places! We’ve got Boing Boing (NT), Burpengary (QLD), Dismal Swamp (TAS), Humpty Doo (NT), Mount Buggery (VIC), Pimpinbudgie (QLD) and my all-time favourite, Tittybong (VIC). And they didn’t stop there. They named an entire state Tasmania. I mean Tas-mania? Is there no stopping these wonderfully creative people?
But cross the Tasman Sea and what do you get? First of all, there are two main islands. The one to the north is called the North Island. The one to the south? Well, that’s the South Island. At the very top of the North Island is the region called Northland, while the very bottom of the South is Southland. To the east of the North Island, we have the East Cape, while the West side of the South Island is called the West Coast. In the middle of the North Island lies the Central Plateau. Are you starting to get the idea yet?
Then there are the names of the towns. Quite a few were so good that just like the song ‘New York, New York’ they named them twice. Thus, we have the likes of Kerikeri, Kawakawa and Matamata. Have the same town in two places? Easy, just name the northernmost one ‘North’ as in Palmerston North and Havelock North. Problem solved! Want to follow the Americans? Well, just call the place ‘New’ as is New Plymouth or New Brighton (very nice beach by the way). I mean, even the whole country is named after the Dutch province, Zeeland, so what possible hope could the settlements, towns and regions within it ever have?
What I find hard to believe is that those who were on the first ships to arrive didn’t try harder. Okay, so they could have been really tired from the long voyage, or maybe someone wasn’t talking to someone else and the whole chain of command broke down. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But I’ve been doing some digging and here’s what I think really happened…
Back in those days, no exploratory vessel was allowed to leave the British Isles without a naturalist (think Darwin and ‘The Beagle’), a small symphony orchestra (to compose the new national anthem) and a nomenclaturist on board. The role of the nomenclaturist was to name the new places on any islands that were discovered and it was such a revered role that the person chosen for the job had the run of the ship. Now, it’s quite a long way from the UK to New Zealand and the weather isn’t always that good. So, what if the nomenclaturist fell overboard one night while out for his evening constitutional? It’s not beyond the realms of possibility and you can imagine the discussion the following morning:
CAPTAIN: Has anyone seen Higgins lately?
FIRST MATE: I’ve asked around and a couple of the deckhands saw him wandering up near the prow last night, Cap’n. They say he seemed a bit unsteady on his feet.
CAPTAIN: Unsteady, you say? You don’t think he’s been at the rum again, do you?
FIRST MATE: It looks that way, Cap’n. Come to think about it, I do recall hearing a splash in the early hours of this morning. Put it down to dolphins running alongside us at the time, but it could have been…
(Both exchange horrified glances)
CAPTAIN: First mate! Search the boat immediately! If we’ve lost him then we’re done for. We might as well just turn around and go home now.
FIRST MATE: Aye, aye, Cap’n.
(Sometime later)
DECKHAND: Land ahoy!
CAPTAIN: Well, this is it. We’re nearly there, but with no Higgins on board. What the hell are we going to do?
FIRST MATE: At least we’ve still got the orchestra, Cap’n.
CAPTAIN: Be thankful for small mercies, eh? I suppose that you’re right, but what about the naming of the damned place? Who’s going to do that?
FIRST MATE (nervously): Well, you are the Captain, Sir.
CAPTAIN (shrugs): I suppose you’re right. Okay, line up the crew. Let’s see if we can’t drag something useful out of them?
FIRST MATE: Aye, aye, Cap’n!
(Some more time later)
CAPTAIN: So, that’s the best we can do, is it? Jones came from Hastings, Stanley from Stratford and Ponsonby from Cambridge. We’re going to have to double up at this rate. And what was that about your Uncle Arthur? Well, let’s pass on that for now, but I’m sure we’ll find a use for it once we get into the interior. Oh, and your wife’s name is Geraldine, isn’t it? Write it down man! You never know, we might just need it! Honestly, I bet Nelson never had these problems. Wait a minute! Write that down too! Oh, I’m never going to live this one down, am I?
Afterword:
As I said at the start of this piece, I really do love New Zealand and am happy to report that since those early days of naming chaos, the country has, in fact, come up with a plethora of unique and interesting place names of which it should be justly proud. So, with a smile on my face, because I’ll always know my place in New Zealand, I’ll leave you with:
Bluff
Bulls
Gore
Paraparaumu, and
Piha
For more information about crazy place names in the UK, Australia and New Zealand, see:
UK:
Aus:
NZ:
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March 15, 2018
Guilt
Guilt
… or my Stilton shame…
Guilt is a strange thing. On the one hand, we seem to be able to successfully bury the most heinous of transgressions deep inside us with no qualms at all, while on the other, the most trivial of events can sometimes fill us with a sense of remorse and self-loathing so intense that it would make a seasoned murderer blush.
Just a few days ago I had a hankering for cheese. Really good, stinky Stilton cheese. The sort of cheese that doesn’t just assault you with its overpowering odour, but physically punches you in the face when you bite into it. So, off I went to the local supermarket, a pleasant enough place if a little crowded on a damp and dreary Saturday afternoon, as was the case here. After a quick search of the shelves, I found what I was looking for, in the dairy section funnily enough: a lovely big hunk of blue-veined Stilton, complete with a warty brown rind. Just the sight of it made my mouth water, so I grabbed it and headed off towards the check-out.
As I left the dairy section, I spotted another row of Stilton. According to the sign below them, they were of the same brand and weight, but considerably cheaper. A quick inspection revealed that they were actually a fair bit smaller than the one I had picked up, but still, the sign said that they were the same. I double checked, suspecting that they had been mislabelled, but the fact remained that there were two signs advertising the same product at two different prices. Not wanting to miss out on a potential bargain, I took photos of the offending signs, grabbed another couple of blocks from the shelf and continued on my way to the check-out, with the intention of asking the till operator to do a ‘price check’ for me when I got there.
After waiting in the queue for what seemed like forever, I finally reached the till and asked about the cheeses. Sure enough, they had been mispriced. That should have been the end of the matter, but no. When I pointed out the issue with the conflicting signs, the very harassed looking check-out operator, gave me his best ‘Oh God’ expression, complete with rolling eyes and mumbled something about putting them all through at the price of the cheapest one, which was unbeknown to me, already heavily discounted. Now, I have to say in my defence that I did remonstrate, saying that I would be happy to pay full price for the others, but the check-out operator wasn’t having any of it. Almost dismissively, the now ridiculously low total was rung up and a pittance was what I ended up being charged.
As I walked away from the check-out, I glanced back at the operator, who was in the process of closing the check-out. The poor fellow looked like he was about to commit hari-kari. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen such despondency on a human face before. Suddenly, what should have been a minor triumph over the growing global dominance of supermarkets: getting away with three lovely lumps of Stilton for a fraction of their usual price, became the hollowest of victories.
I don’t know what came over me, but I suddenly felt absolutely rotten. Had my polite enquiry somehow pushed him over the edge? Was he going to be forced to pay what I had not? Was I going to be listed as the cause of his subsequent nervous breakdown or worse? I knew deep inside that I hadn’t done anything wrong, merely asked him for a price check, something which I am sure happens every day in the world of the professional supermarket operative, but it was the response that had shocked me. No matter how hard I tried to rationalise it, I ended up feeling as if I had spat in his face or spent the morning casually torturing his family, rather than simply asking about the price of cheese.
What made things worse was that the feeling persisted long after I’d left the shop and continued well into the evening. Needless to say, my hankering for Stilton abruptly vanished, with the offending cheese still sitting untouched in my fridge even now. It also ultimately made for a very difficult night’s sleep, which just goes to show how strange a beast is our good friend called guilt.
Maybe I’m just overreacting, I don’t know, but for whatever reason, that fleeting interaction with the man at the check-out on that rainy Saturday afternoon has affected me profoundly. I do know that I’ll get over it eventually, I always do, but I’ll probably have to give Stilton a miss for a while at least!
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March 12, 2018
Amazing Thailand No2 – Taxi Etiquette
Amazing Thailand!
…Number two in an occasional series…
Welcome back to ‘Amazing Thailand’. Today’s example is rather nice. It tells you in very simple terms exactly what you can and cannot do when in a public taxi. No need to trouble yourself with learning all of those tricky tonal consonants and vowels, sixty-four of them in total, that make up the Thai language; just look at the pretty pictures and away you go with complete confidence!
No guns or knives, no naughtiness, no dogs (cats are apparently okay), no bottles or glasses, definitely no durians (a very smelly Asian fruit) and, of course, no smoking, please. I’m fine with all of that, but can someone please tell me what the thing on the extreme left of the picture is because I’m terrified that one day I might accidentally try to bring one on board and get into terrible trouble as a result!
As always, stay tuned for more in the ‘Amazing Thailand’ series soon.
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March 7, 2018
48hr fire sale on ALL books!
Get 50% off all of my books for the next 48 hours only as part of the Smashwords ‘Read an Ebook Week’. Click on, or copy, the link below for more information:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/vi...
Offer expires at the end of 10 March, so act now to get your teeth into the likes of Drynwideon and the entire DATS Trilogy today for a fraction of their usual cost.
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March 5, 2018
On annoying nasal hair
On annoying nasal hair
…or my kingdom for a pair of tweezers…
The other evening, I was talking to a good friend of mine in the bar about all things literary, when suddenly the conversation turned to hair. Nasal hair, in fact. Now, I am quite fond of my hair. Not all of it you understand, but there is so little left on my head since the rest of it migrated down south for the winter, that what is left in the upper reaches of my visage is generally well tolerated. Thus, I have spent many years cultivating my eyebrows to the point where they envy Boris Yeltsin’s and my ear hair could literally tie you up in a rope. As for the deviant follicles that decided to set up home on my tummy, back, legs and toes… yes, I am, in fact, a Hobbit… well, I have no time for those; the traitors. So, when my good friend announced that he had a single hair protruding so far from his nose that it interfered with his eyesight, I had to laugh.
You see, periodically I suffer from what is known in trichotomy circles as ‘bristle nose’. Not to be confused with ‘Bristol Nose’, which is generally a reaction to drinking too much home-brewed cider, bristle nose is the condition that occurs when a single hair on the outside of the nasal cavity, or ‘hooter’ as medical professionals refer to it, becomes spiky, unruly and incredibly annoying. One normally discovers that they are afflicted when a casual scratch of the proboscis (not ‘picking the nose’ you understand) reveals a small bump, ending in the aforementioned spiky hair. Having been discovered, the fingers reflexively continue to explore the offending hair, which becomes sensitised, sending signals to the brain to continue exploration ‘ad nauseam’. The sufferer can readily be identified in public circles by a continual scratching and rubbing of the affected region that increases in ferocity until the afflicted person looks like they have a mild version of St. Vitus’ dance.
In my own situation, the discovery of bristle nose produces violent and repeated attempts to excise the offending hair using any available implement to hand, most usually my fingernails. However, due to another affliction, which will inevitably be the topic of a future blog post, I have no fingernails to speak of, merely worn and much-bitten stumps of writer’s keratin that look more like weather-worn tombstones than appendages that should be found on the end of fingers. This inevitably leads to intense frustration and increased scratching, which, in the presence of colleagues, is most disturbing, until I have to politely excuse myself and seek a pair of tweezers from one or other of my female acquaintances.
Nipping quickly around to the nearest set of ablutions with a mirror (blind clawing at the hair being useless – trust me on that), vengeance is mine and the offending follicle is whipped out of its comfortable resting place and washed unceremoniously down the drain. Having dealt with the immediate threat and albeit being marginally less hairy than I was before, I am able to re-join the conversation with only a light and exploratory examination of my bugle, rather than the furious scratching that preceded it.
Now, I don’t know if you suffer from bristle nose and I hope that you never will, but it is an awful affliction, which causes intense social embarrassment and discomfort, especially in males over forty. So, if you do ever see someone so bothered by the problem that I have just described, then please spare them their embarrassment and have a pair of tweezers and a portable mirror to hand.
Of course, if you simply have a single nose hair that interferes with your day to day vision, well, that is just laughable!
If you think you may be suffering from ‘bristle nose’, or know someone who is then please feel free to visit one of the following websites for help and information:
www.trichohonomicsanonymous.com
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February 28, 2018
Don’t go in the yellow snow!
Don’t go in the yellow snow!
…travellers beware of BBC weather reports…
By the time that you read this post, I will hopefully be in the UK, having travelled from the balmy climes of SE Asia, through the blisteringly hot sands of the Middle East, to arrive in London in what is promising to be the middle of an unusually cold spell, thanks to the so-called ‘Beast from the East’.
Being a good traveller, I like to check for any weather warnings or planned delays that might affect me a few days before I embark on a journey. So, you can imagine my surprise a couple of days ago when I looked online for weather warnings in the UK and was rewarded with a very sincere report from the BBC concerning ‘yellow snow’.
Now, I don’t know about you, but yellow snow means something very particular to me and to see such an esteemed authority as the BBC warning of the stuff covering almost all of England, Scotland and Wales by the middle of the week had me very worried indeed. You see, as a child, yellow snow was the stuff of legend. You’d occasionally see small piles of it at the side of the road and any attempt to investigate it would be met with a stern telling-off from any grown-up in the immediate vicinity. So, to hear that the UK is in for a veritable golden shower of the stuff, just when I’m due to arrive, is worrying news indeed. And it doesn’t stop there. Some parts of the UK are due for a dumping of ‘amber snow’! I have no idea what this variant of yellow snow is. All I can think of is that it might involve those whose lavatory pipes have frozen solid, forcing them to seek desperate relief in the garden and compounding (or concentrating) the problem in the process. All I know is that I want to keep well away from the amber snow, whatever it is.
At the time of writing, I have no idea what to expect when I land at Heathrow on Wednesday. Am I going to be expected to walk through rolling drifts of yellow snow when I arrive? How much of the stuff is there actually going to be? From the look of the MET Office’s official graphic, a lot! And that brings me on to the smell. With so much yellow snow hitting the UK at once, what about the odour that will undoubtedly follow it? Will it stop the trains? Will public transport as a whole grind to a halt, simply because of the stench? I sincerely hope that the local authorities are taking this risk seriously and will be putting urinal cakes into the road gritters to help alleviate the pong.
And what about us poor mortals that will be caught up in the middle of it? The MET Office is urging people to be prepared. But how does one prepare for the spectre of yellow snow? A raincoat and Wellington boots just doesn’t seem enough somehow. Taking a bottle of bleach or air freshener out with you seems a tad overenthusiastic. If anyone can offer some practical guidance, that would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to take it as it comes and hope for the best.
Yes, that’s probably the best way to deal with it. Ignore the threat and carry on as usual. Chin up and all that… the British way. Best foot forward and be careful not to step in the yellow snow, that’s what I say. And if all goes to plan, I’ll send you a picture when I get there.
Wish me luck!
Reference: http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-43190440
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February 26, 2018
Save the Little Blue Penguin
Save the Little Blue Penguin
…the Tiphi commeth…
Now, as you’ll learn in a future blog, New Zealander’s have a very practical and down to earth approach when it comes to naming things. It’s not very imaginative, especially when compared to the Maori approach to name giving, but at least you know where you stand.
So, consider the Little Blue Penguin. Very small, very blue and most definitely a penguin, it is a triumph in the world of practical name assignment. To call it anything else, apart from its Maori name, the Korora, would be doing it a great disservice. It is so clearly, exactly what it is called. But despite having absolute clarity over its identity, the Little Blue Penguin is sadly declining. Official sources say that this is because of predation by household pets, such as cats and dogs, as well as the poor things being squashed by cars or caught in fishing nets, but sources closer to the ground are starting to suspect another even more chilling and sadly literary cause for the bird’s rapidly dwindling numbers.
Enter the Tiphi… The Tiphi (pr. Tee-Fee) is one of New Zealand’s rarest and most cunning predators. Few people have ever been lucky enough to see a Tiphi in the flesh, but those that have lived to tell the tale, speak of an animal about the size of a small Jaguar or mid-sized Mercedes, with banks of razor sharp teeth and eyes like harvest moons. Originally from the majestic Rimu forests that once ranged across the country, the Tiphi has gradually become marginalised to coastal regions, largely because of the effects of deforestation and urban sprawl. Consequently, it has come up with a unique approach to ensuring its survival and ensnaring the Little Blue Penguin, which has become its favoured prey.
These days, all over New Zealand, wherever Little Blue Penguins are to be found, you will see signs like the one above, informing passers-by that the birds in question are crossing the road. These apparently helpful public information signs are really nothing of the sort. They are, in fact, cleverly devised traps crafted out of locally available materials by the perennially sly and scheming Tiphi. You see, very few people realise that Little Blue Penguins can read extremely well and that unfortunately, they have a genetic predisposition to slavishly follow signs. They could no more drop litter, for example, than you or I could dance naked on the moon.
So, consider the situation when a group of Little Blue Penguins arrive on shore only to find a sign telling them to slow down and cross the road! Of course, they immediately form up into an orderly queue, tallest at the front, shortest at the back and proceed to sashay across the road in true penguin style, oblivious to their impending doom. No sooner has the first one made it safely to the other side than the Tiphi attacks and the poor fellow at the tail end vanishes in a blur of snapping teeth and golden eyes. Success for the crafty Tiphi, true, but one less Little Blue Penguin for you and I to enjoy.
Now, I’m not for one moment suggesting that you should go out and pull up any of these signs. That would be interfering with the delicate balance of nature, which is precarious enough at the best of times. But now that you know what manner of beast has put them there, maybe you’ll stop for a moment to see if you can get a glimpse of the elusive Tiphi. And if you’re feeling particularly generous, you might like to leave a packet of chocolate Penguin bars behind to try and tempt the ravenous Tiphi away from the little blue ones!
For more information about the Little Blue Penguin and how you can help, please visit:
http://www.doc.govt.nz/nature/native-animals/birds/birds-a-z/penguins/little-penguin-korora/
Photo credit: Dan Johnson (http://otdaninnewzealand.blogspot.com/2012/10/)
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February 23, 2018
Praise for Death and the End
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February 21, 2018
Drynwideon – The Paperback Lives!
Taking delivery of Drynwideon
…A proud father speaks…
On Tuesday this week, I got a call from the printers to say that the first batch of my new book, ‘Drynwideon, The Sword of Destiny – Yeah, Right’ was ready for collection. It was the news I had been waiting almost three weeks for and with all the excitement of an expectant father, I grabbed my literary agent, Brian, leapt ‘Batman-style’ into the truck and made my way to the print shop as quickly as I could, complete with screeching tyres, which Brian will back me up on.
Having arrived at the printers in record-breaking time, we ran into the ‘delivery room’, well the main office really and there it was, lying on the table, a virgin copy of Drynwideon, all shiny and new, with several of its brothers and sisters swaddled snugly inside some cellophane wrapping to protect them from the chill of the balmy Asian afternoon.
After a little small talk, it suddenly dawned on me that I should capture the moment, so courtesy of Brian and my smartphone, we talked the head printer and some of the lads down on the shop floor into posing for a couple of snapshots.
So, there you have it. Drynwideon now lives and we have proof positive of its paperback status. So spread the word, start saving up those nickels and dimes, schekels or pennies and be one of the first to get your hands on a physical copy of the book, which looks fantastic in the flesh and reads even better!
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February 19, 2018
A Load of Hot Water
A Load of Hot Water
… an immersive story about poor house design…
So, there I am, happily ensconced in the Waikato, New Zealand, living in a lovely little pre-fabricated cottage with wonderful landlords. What could possibly go wrong, you might ask?
Well, one morning I woke up, as I thankfully often do, and went for my morning shower only to find a complete absence of hot water. A quick inspection of the bathroom revealed no problems with the shower or surrounding plumbing, so clad only in a bath towel, I made my way to the airing cupboard where I discovered that the immersion heater, which lurked troll-like inside, had sadly expired during the night. Slightly put out by the fact that there would be no hot shower for Rob that morning, I called John, my landlord, who informed me that all would be made good by the time I returned from work that evening. Buoyed up by John’s typically swift and positive response, I made my way to work smelling only slightly worse than I normally did.
On the way home from work, a drive which took about twenty minutes in ‘The Beast’ (more about that in a future post), I wasn’t sure what to expect, but lo and behold when I pulled into the driveway, there was the old immersion heater sitting indignantly outside the house and John standing on the veranda (or deck as we call it in NZ) waving at me. As I got closer to the house, I could see that John had a wry smile on his face. While this was not unusual, it was when put into the context of DIY and house maintenance. I was no sooner out of the car when John called out: “All done! You’ve got a nice, new water heater installed in place of the old one.”
Great, I thought. Well, that means I should be able to have a shower and finally start to relax for the evening.
“Come and have a look,” said John, still smiling mysteriously to himself.
Now, I must admit that to me, one immersion heater looks very much like the next, but an expert I am not and I couldn’t be sure if I had inadvertently uncovered one of John’s many secret passions. The genealogy and bloodstock industry I knew about, but precious little else. Anyway, I decided to humour him and made my way into the house, readying myself to be suitably impressed when he showed me the sleek new model sitting inside the airing cupboard.
“Ooh, nice,” I said, as he opened the airing cupboard door.
“Notice anything unusual?” he asked, his wry smile threatening to erupt into laughter at any moment.
Well, I looked at the immersion heater. In fact, I stared at it quite intently for a while, but I couldn’t see anything obviously wrong with it. I mean, it was sitting on the floor with a couple of pipes and an electric cable sticking out of it, but that seemed quite normal to me.
After letting me suffer for a couple of minutes, John said: “Have a look at the doorframe.”
As he closed the door, I turned my attention to the surrounding frame and then I spotted it. “Wasn’t the doorframe in one piece, this morning?” I asked as I noticed two large cuts, one on either side of the airing cupboard door.
“Yes,” said John, finally bursting into laughter. “You wouldn’t believe the fun and games we’ve had today, trying to replace the old immersion heater. The builder came around at half past nine this morning and only left about thirty minutes before you got home. You see, when they built the house, which was pre-fabricated, they put the immersion heater in first and then built the walls and doors around it. I don’t think they ever thought that one day someone would need to replace the thing. There was no way that we could get it out without having to tear down and rebuild the doorframe. I hope you don’t mind?” he continued, tears of mirth literally cascading down his face as he looked at my impression of a stunned mullet.
Eventually, I pulled myself together, amazed at the stupidity of whoever had built the house in such a way as to make the removal of the immersion heater a physical impossibility and said to John: “Well, at least I’ve got hot water again. Now, given that you’ve damaged the property I’m living in, is there any chance of a rent reduction?”
“No,” said John.
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