Last Monday’s efforts had a few side effects. Firstly, I was so busy with the boat, I totally forgot it was the date of the first monthly meeting of the year of the Really, Really Fat Persons’ Support Group. As my weight loss has plateaued again, I probably needed to be there.
Secondly, the damage I did to my knees with all the lifting and pulling lingers on, making it agonising to walk anywhere. At the mall yesterday I had to hijack a supermarket trolley to use as a zimmerframe just to get me to Lowe’s and back to the car. Even so, I stopped to sit and rest at every bench I came to along the mall. There are not nearly enough of them.
I did my back no good either. The spondylitic (is that a word?) pains down my thighs and calves are another thing entirely. They don’t subside at present even when I’m sitting or laying down. Even though it’s still pouring rain this morning, I’m going swimming straight after I’ve had my coffee breakfast. The pool is the only place I can enjoy pain-free weightlessness. I shall not be riding the bike though. Even though it is a balmy 24C I still have no raingear and the chill factor of wet clothes does not appeal. Note to self: get a poncho. It would be handy in the boat as well.
Despite the crappy weather and the self-inflicted discomfort, I’m otherwise fine. In good spirits. My best mate is coming over from NZ soon, for a week of fishing and fun. I just hope the weather is good by then.
I am a pluviophile. I love the rain. Especially tropical rain.
Walking in the rain, getting soaking wet…
My weather app tells me there is a thirty percent chance of rain. Considering it has been raining heavily for over ten hours , I consider the app to be 70% wrong.
I went to sleep to the lovely sound of heavy rain on my roof, and woke to it this morning. The kookaburra didn’t seem to mind either. He gave a rousing burst of song at 05:40 on the dot, just as I was pouring my first coffee. The frogs are happy too. I can hear at least three species announcing their sexual availability.
My neighbour’s coughing fit was without a trace of Strauss today, though I might have caught a phrase or two of Coltrane. He was soaked on his morning pilgrimage to the ablution block and back. I cheated, I went to the rear corner of my caravan where I am screened from public view, and peed into the stream flowing past my bicycle and through the fence down into the creek. I still got wet. And I still have to go to the ablution block sooner or later.
Last night I went to the Rangla Punjab Wednesday night buffet. All you can eat for twenty dollars. I tried a little of every curry as well as the raitas and pickles. Everything, from the rice and naan to the samosas and bhaji were excellent. The mango lassi was outstanding. That was extra, but well worth four dollars. I tried very hard not to overdo it, but I blew my calorie budget for the first time since I started counting them. I don’t regret it. I shall do it again, though not regularly. Perhaps only when Wednesday coincides with a special occasion.
Yesterday’s occasion was that I now have a recreational marine drivers licence (RMDL). What the rest of the country calls a skipper’s ticket. That I’ve had a boatmaster and coastal yachtmaster ticket in NZ since 1979 did not matter to Queensland Transport. I still had to pass a local course and get certified before they’d grant me a licence. Done and dusted all in one morning yesterday.
Now I can take out the tinnie I bought on line while drunk at Christmas. Kidding. I arranged to view it on Boxing Day. I agreed to buy it. Perfect for my needs, which is code for all I can afford.
I would have given you all my Oolong And I know you like to drink tea that’s strong But I’ve just drank up all that I had So if you want, I’ll try to brew again Baby, I’ll try to brew again, but I know The first cup is the weakest, baby, I know The first cup is the weakest, And when it comes to making coffee, he’s cursed When it comes to making tea he’s worse
I still want you to to try some Earl Grey Just to take the taste of chamomile away And I think you should give chai a try So. If you want, I’ll boil the jug again, Baby, I’ll put the kettle on again, but I know, oh The first cup is the weakest, baby, I know The first cup is the weakest And when it comes to making coffee, he’s cursed When it comes to making tea he’s worse
They are strange creatures. I have studied them for some time, and still find their behaviour inexplicable. Despite almost constantly killing each other in various Skirmishes, battles and wars, anywhere, and at any time, around their planet, they rarely eat each other, even after mating. They don’t even eat their own young, although they can catch them easily.
Their genetic code differs greatly from ours. I have been unable to learn anything from those I have eaten. Thus I must learn from studying their behaviour, a task that seems dauntingly difficult.
They have no claws or ovipositors, but have developed an astonishing
array of synthetic weapons with which to attack each other. So far
I have not determined the criteria on which they base their decision to attack,
nor on their choice of weapon, which ranges from sharpened objects of various
types and hand held projectile throwers, to extremely large mobile devices,
having cooperative crews of many individuals and capable of throwing projectiles and explosive devices over a great
This interesting social construct of cooperative communities is a most alien concept, difficult to grasp. It consists of numbers of individuals, from small groups to large area-wide populations, and of any gender working together to construct habitats and also to craft these various devices with which to attack each other. In some areas, these attacks are ritual in nature, and death rarely results. In other areas whole communities attack and slaughter other communities, with devices designed to make holes in vital organs, or to disintegrate them entirely.
How they learn the skills required without eating each other I have yet to discover.
How individuals decide to cooperate with some, yet attack and destroy other groups, I have been unable to determine. It may involve territoriality. There appears to be some form of genetically coded ritual involved. They may not be able to consciously choose, despite the appearance of rational behaviour on occasion.
A difficult ritual to understand, from my perspective, takes place on designated pathways where individuals or small cooperative groups enter various forms of mobile device and ritually pass each other at high speed, apparently seeking suitable prey. These pathways cover most of the land mass where terrain permits and cross territorial boundaries.
At seemingly random intervals, somewhere along these paths one device will crash into another, or into some feature of the environment. This may result in injury or death of some or all participants. For some reason, survivors rarely attempt to finish off and eat any others still alive. In fact they cooperate to ensure any injured or damaged individuals are taken away to places where they can be repaired.
It is this custom of repairing themselves that I find the most inexplicable of all. After doing their best to kill and maim each other, they then go to great lengths to to repair damaged individual survivors, rather than eat them. Without that, how do they learn from each other?
How the individuals who carry out the repairs are able to restrain themselves from eating those damaged ones needs to be studied further. Perhaps they use some form of inhibitor to suppress the natural cannibal instinct. They may be a separate sub-species genetically primed to repair rather than attack. If their genes have somehow combined with those of the general population, it may explain the strange dichotomy of behaviour planetwide. How it helps with the continuation of the species will take considerable further study. I may be witnessing some new evolution of the Survival Directive.
I shall not return to mate and be eaten until I have incorporated a satisfactory explanation of the above phenomena into my matrix.
I made some rooolly good Festive Turkeyballs yesterday. So good they almost outclassed my Festive sausage rolls from a year or two back. So good, indeed, that were it not for the unfortunate association formed by “Alan” and “balls” I would name them after myself, like the salads created by Messrs. Waldorf and Caesar. Or the dessert created by Professor Pavlov, the famous New Zealand dog trainer.
These are my Christmas gift to you, dear reader. Try them.