The Year of Disasters 

The last twelve months to date Have been a story to tell 

How the lives of many people Have been turned into hell 

From the earthquakes in Christchurch 

To the tsunami in Japan 

How could have this all happened To God’s own very land Its not only all the earthquakes 

And the Rena oil of late 

But there’s the financial institutions 

Going right there down the drain 

And the troubles they are turning 

Our world here upside down 

And everyody’s walking

 Around here with a frown 

But there’s always been that tiny Little glimmer of hope 

There’d be some smiles on our faces If the All Blacks just could cope 

And indeed that yes they did It’s what we all have needed 

Some cheer in our hearts 

The World Cup has been conceded 

For the Web Ellis Trophy Is ours to keep for now 

And the spirit of the Nation Has been lifted up somehow 

So thank you to the All Blacks 

You’ve truly done us proud And now our hearts can sing again 

Three cheers to you out loud 

Heather Young

J: Hi Lib 

L: Hi 

J J: How was your day?

L: Oh it was OK, the dog ran away again, it is just such a nuisance. 

Paddy is being difficult. He is in his room. Can you make him do his Japanese homework? 

He doesn’t listen to me. Did you drop Maisey off? 

J: Oh shit, I forgot about Maisey. Is she still at drama? I’ll call her. Did she call? 

L: Don’t worry, she will have got a ride. She will be disappointed though. Can you get the dough out of the machine?

J: Sure. Pizza? You sure she will be OK? I should call. Damn.

 I just left the hospital and totally forgot. The bloody traffic through Newtown was terrible. 

L: I’m actually sure she’s fine. We can call after rehearsal and see if she needs a ride home.

 I doubt she will be back for dinner. Paddy probably won’t eat anything either. 

J: There was a diabolical woman in labour today. 

L: Mmm? J: Breach birth. The bloody midwife didn’t have a clue. 

The whole family was standing around totally in the way. 

Bloody midwife just let them all in and didn’t call me till the bloody last minute possible. 

Shit. Are there any beers?

L: How should I know, I don’t drink the beers. 

J: Do you want me to pour you a glass of wine Juju? 

L: No, I’m fine. Can you please go and have a talk to Paddy? 

J: Oh, hold on, I just need to sit down for a few moments. 

L: Look, he is just really frustrating me. He tells me he does his homework 

or that he doesn’t have any, but I saw one of the teacher aids at yoga and he is just not up to it. 

J: I know. He is clever. We know that.

 L: Well, I think he knows that too much.

J: Yes.

L: And I don’t think the teachers appreciate the attitude. 

J: Do we have any cheese? 

L: You shouldn’t be gorging yourself on fatty cheese right before dinner. 

J: Uh..

L: That beer is bad enough, J.

J: Lib. 

L: It is. 

J: Its just one beer, I’ve been on call since 6am. 

L: Well you’re doing yourself no favours. 

J: Its fine. 

L: Hmm. 

J: Shall we pre-bake these bases? 

L: Yes, we always do. 

J: OK. 

L: Its almost 7:30. 

J: Is it? 

L: Yes. 

J: I’ll close the curtains.

L: Thanks Juju. 

J: They’re quite good aren’t they? 

L: I’ve been thinking they are a bit light? 

J: But means they will still be good in summer.

L: Just those southerlies. It was terrible on the southern walkway this morning. 

J: Yeah, I don’t know about getting that umbrella out there. 

L: I still hold out some hope for summer sun! 

J: We’ll just have to be careful with it. 

L: Yep. 

J: OK, I’ll go have a talk with Paddy.

L: Can you take this laundry up. Tell him dinner is ready in 10. And I’ll do one with just cheese.

Mia

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Kemicar

Real versus imaginary. 

Kemičar “Sweeping up these dead, dry flower petals off the path is like trying to gather up angels’ wings” 

Robert grumbled as the breeze and the broom scattered the pale, filigree remains of what were

once a red, fragrant display enticing bees to do their work. 

Keith, impatiently waiting, questioned “Like what?” “Like angels’ wings” 

Robert replied. “What the hell are angels’ wings made from, if they look like that?” retorted 

Keith. “Tell me more of what you think you know about angels’ wings. This should be amusing.”

 “Well”, Robert replied, “they are made from a high-tensile diaphanous composite

with refractive index about the same as that of the air angels fly through, 

and that is what makes them very difficult to see. 

They are, I imagine, extremely light-weight, and strong for the G-forces for the stalled-dives 

and loop-the-loops expected of them.” 

“Light-weight like your imagination! Why don’t you stick to thinking about real, proper things? ”

“Angels’ wings are real, at least to my imagination.” Keith quietly shook his head,

looking askance at Robert. One eyebrow slightly raised, and remarked,

“For brothers, you and I are so different. I am the practical realist, doing real things, 

and you are the theoretical dreamer, going on flights of fancy in your imagination,

 thinking up stuff which nobody else sees any use for.”

“I disagree,” replied Robert. “Just think, if angels’ wings can be imagined, and possibly even created experimentally and their strength and stiffness measured, humans might be able to learn

how to manufacture them, and fly.

” Keith was starting to feel impatient with what he considered a ridiculous conversation. 

“Humans can fly,” he snorted. “You buy your ticket, arrive at the airport, do all the passport stuff, 

get on the plane, and ‘whoosh’, you’re flying. 

And, by the way, do angels actually know their destination when they are flying?” 

“You raise an interesting question there, Keith, but again, I disagree with you, 

that after the passport stuff, etcetera, ‘whoosh’ and you’re flying. 

You’re not flying, the aircraft is doing the flying, and you’re just sitting in it, headset on,

watching a movie. Angels do real flying.” Keith was now looking at his watch, 

searching for an excuse to get away from this conversation which was getting him rather irritated.

“Can you finish sweeping up these angels’ wings so I can get the car out and be on my way? “  

Awake, and then slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings, a white-painted ceiling with a 

fluorescent light tube came briefly into focus before his vision blurred. He closed his eyes, allowing 

his brain to try and account for what seemed like an eternity since whatever it was that had led him 

to this place at this time. “Where am I? What has happened to me?” he murmured. His throat felt 

sore and dry. “Ah, you’re awake.” A voice at his left side. “How are you feeling? Do you feel sick?” 

More alert, he responded “Feeling a bit giddy and queasy.” “Are you going to vomit? We need to 

prop you up.” “No, I don’t think so. I need some water.” Eyes opened to see four people in white 

uniforms. Hospital. Kidney surgery. That’s what it was. But that happened today, this morning. 

He felt as if he had been asleep for eons, a huge gap of time between recalling the entrance into the

 operating theatre and now. “You were in theatre for five hours. Now we have to get you up and 

walking, and having a pee.” instructed one of the white uniforms. “We are going to get you out the 

right-side of the bed, two of us will take care of you, help you to get on your feet, and the other two

 will look after the catheters and the drip. OK? Tell me anytime you want us to stop for you to rest.”

 “What?” He lifted his head cautiously off the pillows to look at his body. He was clad only in the 

unflattering loose white bikini with the ties at the sides in which he had started this day. One tube

 from a bottle suspended on a stand fed into his right arm. Green adhesive tape held the tube in 

place. The needle looked large, and there was an iodine stain splashed over his skin, which he now remembered, had been shaved from nipples to knees. Two other tubes erupted from his abdomen, 

one by his navel, the other at the right side. Both tubes disappeared over the edge of the bed. 

There was a large sticking plaster which stretched half-way around the right side of his body. “God,

 what have they done to me?” he wondered. “First, we are going to swing your legs over the edge,

 then ease you up,” said white uniform in charge. He naturally attempted to sit up, as usual, 

by himself, by tensing abdominal muscles to fold in the middle. The sudden pain was intense. 

He heard himself yell, and he slumped back onto the pillows, panting shallowly and wide-eyed, 

willing the pain to go. “Wait for us to help” said white-coat in charge. “I will”, he thought. “Won’t try

 that again.” The antics required to get him out of bed and standing took what seemed forever.

 Each move had to be carefully choreographed in order to get limbs, torso and tubes synchronized.

 Finally standing supported by two white-coats, he was given the opportunity of urinating to an 

audience, which turned out to be a performance incredibly difficult to achieve. Function finished, 

he was then encouraged to attempt a short walk with the attendant plumbing paraphernalia in tow. 

He felt like an octogenarian after a serious traffic accident rather than the spritely thirty-year-old, 

who had, dry-mouthed and with heart racing, in trepidation, entered the hospital the day before. 

Returning to bed was a reversal of the step-by-step process of getting up, to get everything 

organised and back in place. “Are you in much pain now?” asked white-coat, who had a label 

‘House Surgeon’, and then his name. “Yes, and it seems to be getting worse.” “That is to be 

expected, and can take three days after surgery to cope with. We are going to give you pain 

relief and put you back to sleep again for about five hours. Were you told about pethidine during 

your interview with the surgeon? “Yes.” The pethidine was dosed through the drip into his arm, 

and quickly he went to sleep. Sleep was not, on pethidine, calm and recuperative, but rather a 

nightmare of hallucination and agitation. As he began to wake only two hours after the pethidine 

dose, he was aware of someone talking and then loud yelling and a sensation of falling backwards

 into an imagined abyss in the dark. Now with eyes open, he could see he was alone in the room,

 and that the talking and yelling were his own. He was drenched with perspiration and shaking. 

The bedsheets had been kicked off, and he was sideways across the bed. The door opened, 

and two white-coats rushed in. “Ok, Ok, we’re here. Keep calm.” House surgeon arrived. “Oh boy, 

you are a bad tripper! We can’t have you doing that again.” Turning to the other white-coats, 

he added “Change the sheets, and we will have to try a lower dose and more often. This one uses 

it up fast to go on adventures.” More slow and deliberate maneuvers to get out of bed, wait for the 

change of sheets, and then back into bed again. “No more pethidine,” he insisted. “I don’t want to 

have pethidine.” “You’re going to need some pain control and the next couple of days are bound to

 be uncomfortable for you,” insisted House Surgeon. Pain or pethidine? One day down, two to go.  

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