Tag Archive: cricket


Sushimania

I had to have another go while I had plenty of rice left over.

My lunch yesterday.

Lunch at the botequim

Lunch at the botequim

To sit on the veranda at the botequim, sushi with beer. Wonderful way to do it. It was so yummy.

Cool day, it’s trying to rain. I hope it holds off until I get to work in an hour.

Is this a wlid flower, or is it just angry?

Is this a wlid flower, or is it just angry?

Reading a post yesterday and it was about wild flowers. It made me think, just what is a wild flower? What would make a flower wild?

My mind wandered, and I came up with this daisy.

Remarkable event; I did the dishes, then I cooked lunch. You’d never think I went near the sink this morning.

Nothing much doing. I’ve been a bit slack today. Currently enjoying a late afternoon coffee.

North Korea has reported that its illustrious leader is sick; doesn’t say what with, but it has caused him to miss some official engagements. With any luck he won’t recover, one more despot less.

An American worker fired from his job beheaded a colleague and wounded another. Yes, he is a Muslim and had recently tried to convert his colleagues to Islam.

Ah, the pitter patter of raindrops on the carport…

China has uncovered $10bn in fake trading, thet’ll dent their wallet.

Practice

Practice

Weird, cricketers played a game on top of Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania; making it the highest game of cricket in the world at 5,730 metres (about 18,800ft). Clouds stopped play.

Daft buggers.

Now the internet is playing up, downloads so slow. So it’s time to say…

Later.

Image credit

Caution

coffee-beautifulBrain explosion/implosion imminent!

Not sure which.

I’ve been awake for nearly two hours, I’ve drunk two coffees, brain does not want to function.

I have managed to post on five blogs (God alone knows how).

If it wasn’t for the laundry lady being here, I would seriously consider a nap was in order; just wait until she’s gone.

Last night I was watching the wrong TV channel, while I figured that out a movie started.

Avatar, I had never seen and partly because of the hype when the movie was released, I wasn’t particularly interested in seeing. I find that many movies given the ‘Hollywood bullshit’ treatment are crap.

Neytiri_ProfilbildBut my interest piqued, and I ended up sacrificing my news on the correct channel to see the first 45 minutes. I became fascinated by the blue aliens with pointy Spock-like ears.

My interest grew and I switched over to watch at each ad break during the novela (soap opera) on the correct channel. When that finished, I watched the rest of the movie.

Really, the movie is a sad indictment on humanity at the same time it was myth-making adventure to save a foreign species, in that the hero became a god-like leader to his adopted people.

I am now tempted to d/load the movie to catch the missing bits.

I guess it’s because I had a later night than usual that I am tired today.

afghancricketOne usually associates the game of cricket with England, Australia, New Zealand, India, Pakistan and South Africa. One country that does not spring to mind is Afghanistan.

But you have to remember that Britain was there too, and cricket was bound to rub off. In the news yesterday I read that Afghanistan has qualified for the World Championship for the first time in 2015.

Well done, Afghanistan!

Certainly a change from the usual news about bombs, attacks and those nasty Americans.

I’ll make some fresh incentive coffee, and see if I can’t blog along.

Later.

I am NOT Old

I am not old.

I don’t feel it.

I don’t act it.

I don’t think it.

Some say, I don’t look it. But they’re just being nice.

I am sixty. I use a walking stick.

Which raises an interesting issue. At what age does one become old?

Is there an arbitrary age?

Everything else in life has an arbitrary age.

You have to go to school at 7.

You can leave school at 15.

You can smoke at 16, but you can’t buy cigarettes until 18.

You can’t vote until 18.

You can’t drink until you are 18.

You can’t drive until you are 18.

You are not criminally responsible until you are 18 (Latin America), but 10 in England.

You can’t have sex until you are 16.

You can’t get married until you are 18. (Which makes a mockery of sex only in marriage).

You retire at 60-something.

So at which age do you become arbitrarily old? Sixty, seventy, eighty… some point in between.

Kids today don’t understand the value of offal like tongue

The day before yesterday I was in the supermarket and saw tongues. I haven’t eaten tongue in years. I bought one. Hell, they are expensive now. Yesterday, I covered it in water added some black peppercorns and cloves and set it to simmer for a couple of hours. After peeling it, giving some tidbits to Lixo (he liked it) I made a sandwich of thinly sliced tongue and Dijon mustard. Instant nostalgia!

Kids today don’t know what tongue is, they have never experienced the delight of tongue. Does that signify ‘old’… when you begin to like tongue?

Maybe I am old, but I just don’t know it; I refuse to bow down before it, I refuse to cave in to the premise.

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and discover that my dotage has arrived; that I am old and feeble.

People ask me how I am each day. I always reply, “I’m out of bed, so the world is good.”

In the meantime, I will continue my innings, 60 – not out! Americans may not understand that, but then they don’t understand cricket either.

Doing Nothing, just remembering

That’s what I promised to do this weekend.

Basically, I have achieved nothing much, apart from a little blogging yesterday.

I had meant to blog here too, in fact the “Add New Post” page has been open since about yesterday lunch time, and I am now preparing lunch today.

Fish ‘n’ Chips, that wonderful English standby.

I had several ideas about what to blog yesterday, but then that great dark cloud loomed over the horizon; you know the one that prevents you from thinking clearly.

One of the ideas was prompted by an image I came across in my vast archives.

Yes, an old fashioned razor strop.

This was the most feared weapon in our house. Not the razor, my father had some tucked away in an old cigar box in his writing desk; but the strop.

You see that was what Bush would have called a WMD. With this in the middle drawer we were subdued in acquiescence. It didn’t even need to be taken out of the drawer, which was the ‘junk draw’ in the kitchen. The mere knowledge that this existed was an unwritten guarantee of exemplary behaviour. I can only remember the sting once. I was about five, and I had disturbed my father’s sleep in by waking my little brother. My pyjama pants were down, I was bent across the bed and the strop applied. The harsh slap of leather on bare flesh, once felt, never forgotten.

Today, of course, I could rat on my parents for being so brutal and probably divorce them or something.

It’s not that my parents were into brutality, but I do remember the omnipresence of that strop. I can remember one time my mother, who was a little on the plump side of thin, chasing myself and my younger brother town the yard to the orchard where like a couple of cats treed by a rabid dog we sought safety in an apple tree. Our giggling at our narrow escape only served to enrage her with threats of, “just wait till your father gets home!” I don’t remember the final act of that particular play, nor the reason that prompted her to chase us down the yard in the first place.

So it was last night that my mother called, she is now 88 and I am 60; she calls me each Saturday for a chin-wag. Last Saturday she didn’t. That has happened before, but last night her voice was frail, I could hear it. She needs heart surgery, but her body is not strong enough, but this wasn’t the problem this time; her body is just worn out. On her own admittance, she didn’t ring earlier in the week, she didn’t have the strength to manage the phone. Whereas, the week before she needed hospitalisation, she was driving her car.

If you understand cricket; no batsman was ever sneezed at for a respectable innings of 88 not out, but we know innately when we are facing our final over; and this was tacitly understood between us last night. Myself, being the eldest child, I was always my mother’s confident, she would tell me things that she never dared tell my father. As we hung up last night, we each said, “I love you,” which we haven’t said to each other for many, many years.

So with that, later. Maybe there will be a Sunday Travel Tales, maybe there won’t.

Out of a Pickle

The world continues to turn and revolve around the sun. Things are normal, although I am still a little woozy from yesterday’s eradication attempt.

He's growing up

Lixo P. Cat (middle name Pussy) is stretched out blithely taking in the morning sun in the yard his kingdom; the dishes need to be done and the onions still need to be pickled, but I have my coffee. The day promises to be hot, like yesterday, and the day before that, and the rest of the previous ten days.

Ah ha, Fluffy Nuts (Lixo’s nickname) has deigned to grace me with his presence. BRB.

Cat stroking completed.

I canceled today’s classes yesterday, so it will be a recovery day, then of course the weekend.

I am going to take things slowly, because that chemical they used really did knock for a six (Americans, if you don’t understand cricket, that means ‘a long way’) Cricket, a wonderful game, the British invented it and even they don’t understand it. I haven’t seen a cricket match for 14 years, it is one of the things I miss about being in a civilised world. One watches football (soccer for you Americans) for a full 90 minutes, but the luxury of watching a test match in cricket over three days cannot be beaten. One day games are okay, but they are a bit like a quick fix, one really needs the full dosage.

I asked myself a question yesterday. Yes, I know that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness… But I subscribed to that realisation a long time ago. Now, back to the question:

Has there ever been nothing?

Space is big, really really big!

The answer is cosmic in proportion. Rather humbling when you are considering the matter in the confines of ones kitchen.

Recent discloures via the Hubble telescope indicate that we can see light that emanated 13 billion light years away, and that there are more than a few stars in between.

Can you imagine the vastness of 13 billion light years?

I can’t. My mind goes all fuzzy. You see our language does not give us the power to imagine such astronomical distances. To quote Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy on the size of Space. “Its big, really really big.” I mean, you could say enormous, but that doesn’t cover it, you could use gigantic, but neither does that; how about leviathan, nah, that’s just a little bigger than a sailing ship even though it scared the willies out of sailors at the time. We don’t have a word that represents the extents and boundaries of Space. Does Space actually have boundaries? See, the problem just gets worse. The human mind can only comprehend set limits.

We are very limited creatures. No imagination at all for the colossal distances of Space, we just cannot comprehend it.

I have to think further on this question.

The ramifications are many and troubling….

It will become a post one day. I will gel my thoughts and hopefully come up with more than a blancmange.

My head hurts.

It does that when I think too much.

Later, I need more coffee.

Last week it rained twice…

First for three days, then for four days.

Yes, last week it rained a lot. Today it is supposed to let up and come back tomorrow. So I am making hay while the sun shines.

Last night I read a mates blog. I haven’t got over that way for a bit and I see that he has a post about his beloved Australia and my own equally adored New Zealand. I think it was in response to my previous post Things. Tempo told some stories that would of course be quite true if Australia replaced New Zealand and New Zealand replaced Australia in most of the texts; all except the one about Wiremu and his testicular removal.

But he’s right, we are neighbours and we do sling off at each other something chronic, but when you find a Kiwi and an Ozzie overseas amongst the thousands of tourists, you’d think they were Siamese twins because they’re always together. Our rivalry is only equaled by our respect… I think.

It doesn’t matter whether they do us at cricket, or we stomp the stuffing out of them on the rugby paddock, we will still tell the same jokes about each other, they are crude rude and sometimes downright nasty, they sling off at our sheep and we sling off at theirs, we’ve got the Maoris and they’ve got the Aborigines; they’ve got this huge stone in their yard and a poncy Opera house in Sydney, and we’ve got Mt Cook and…. well, we’ve got Mt Cook. Oh, yeah and some mud puddles. So there are good and bad points on both sides of the creek (that’s what we both call the Tasman Sea). It’s true that Australians don’t speak English, they speak Strine, but then we don’t say New Zealand, but rather Newzild

“Newzilders and Strines, sharing proud isolation at the tail of the South Pacific, have been blood brothers in two world wars. In peacetime they keep busy sniping at each other – and mangling their mother tongue. For decades each nation has fiercely upheld its own dialect, despising the other’s version. But now the battle is out in the open. First the Strines stepped over the line by circulating Let Stalk Strine on the wrong side of the Tasman…”

That blurb said it better than me. We retaliated.

But when meeting each other and others of our ilk we both say “Gidday, air gun?” which loosely translated into BBC English would be something like, “Good morning (afternoon, evening), how are you?” The Strines have this national dish called ‘feesh ‘n cheeps’ whereas in Newzild we have the same dish called ‘fush ‘n chups.’ So we are both irrevocably and intricantly involved with butchering our mother tongue, English.

And we both fight ad nauseum over who invented the Pavlova. Which isn’t even a contest because the earliest writing of the “pav” is in a NZ cookbook from the 1920’s whereas it didn’t appear in Australian literature until 1940; which could be explained by the fact that Australian literature only appeared about then too.

Things like bungy jumping were also a New Zealand first. The Australians were first at… ah… um, something.

Newzilders see Strya a bit like this:

And so it goes…

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