Public Address - Southerly (Home)

Another One for the Kids | Dec 24, 2008 00:05

A junior Public Address reader has written to me, asking if there will be another Southerly Christmas story this year suitable for "reading aloud to good children on Christmas Eve".

Why, of course there is. Here at Public Address, we attempt to meet every reasonable request from our readers, no matter how junior, or how heavily-prompted by their parents. Mind you, we're not entirely sure that we've ever heard of good children on Christmas Eve. Wouldn't it be more fun to stay up all night, drinking coffee, and re-arranging the furniture into more interesting and useful configurations? Yes, we think so, too.

But first, an apology. The author had every intention of providing illustrations to accompany this story. Alas, that he has discovered, deep within himself, a complete inability to draw otters. As it was far too late to change the main character into something more easily drawn (such as a triangle or a letterbox), then the story is presented without adornment.

A portable easy-to-read version, suitable for bedtime requirements, can be obtained by clicking on the 'print' button at the bottom of this post.

 
There was no doubting that Albert Otter was different.

"Our other children don't particularly care for fish," said Albert Otter's mother, "but Albert Otter will eat nothing else. And our other children walk on two legs, but Albert prefers to walk on four. And none of our other children have fur, or a tail like Albert does -- or such sharp teeth."

Albert Otter's father was the King's gardener. Each day, on his way to the palace, he would walk Albert to the village school. It wasn't easy being different at school. Albert Otter had trouble with sums, and he didn't seem to have right type of hands to hold a pen. His tail always seemed to be knocking over bottles of ink.

Each time Albert Otter made another spelling mistake, or accidentally tracked inky paw-prints across the classroom, his teacher would let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, Al-bert," she'd say despairingly. And the other pupils would all join in: "Oh, Al-bert."

Games at school were, if anything, even worse. Albert Otter was much shorter than his school-mates, and he was hopeless at the high-jump and the pole-vault. When it came to football, he always seemed to forget himself, and would attempt to use his teeth instead of his feet. The other children would look forlornly at the deflating ball. "Oh, Al-bert," they'd groan.

Sometimes after school, Albert Otter would go to his bedroom, and weep bitter tears. "I'm hopeless at everything," he'd sob. His mother would sit beside him on the bed, gently patting his fur. "Don't worry, Albert," she'd say. "You'll find your talent -- we just have to figure out what it is."

She decided to hire a piano teacher to give Albert lessons. "My son is trying to find his hidden talent," she explained, "and I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be music." But Albert Otter's paws were too small for the keyboard. He found it so frustrating that he accidentally bit the piano teacher on the leg.

"Your son should be muzzled," the teacher told Albert's mother angrily -- and billed her for twice the normal fee.

Albert's father wondered if Albert might have a hidden talent for gardening. He took him to the palace one Saturday morning. But while he was pruning the roses, Albert Otter somehow managed to eat all the prize-winning tropical fish from the palace lake. "I only meant to see what one tasted like," explained Albert apologetically.

"The Queen was very nice about it," Albert's father told Albert's mother, "but you could tell she was a bit put out. I don't think I should take Albert Otter to work again."

That winter was the coldest that anyone could remember. The last school-day before Christmas was particularly unlucky for Albert Otter. He slept in, and didn't have time for breakfast. Then, walking to school through the snow, he became so hungry that he had to eat his own homework. The teacher gave him an after-school detention as punishment.

It was nearly dark before Albert was allowed home. He was trudging wearily past the palace, when suddenly he heard the Queen cry out: "Help! Help! The Princess has been skating on the lake, and she's fallen through the ice!"

Albert Otter didn't hesitate for a moment. He threw down his school-bag, squeezed through the fence railings, and scampered onto the frozen lake. The Queen was sobbing beside a hole in the ice. Albert plunged into the freezing water.

Beneath the ice, the world looked blue and shimmering. Far below him, Albert could see the Princess struggling on the lake bottom -- weighed down by her heavy skates. He dived towards her. His sharp teeth gnawed deftly through her skate-straps. The Princess and Albert glided upwards through the water. Moonlight glittered upon the ice above their heads.

A crowd had gathered beside the lake. The Royal Physician wrapped a quilt around the Princess. The King shook Albert Otter's paw. "Well done on rescuing my daughter, Albert Otter," he said. "You've found your secret talent -- life-saving!"

The Princess's teeth were chattering with cold, but she gave Albert a special smile. She whispered a few words into her father's ear. The King cleared his throat. "And, furthermore," he added. "I would like to offer you my daughter's hand in marriage."

Albert and the Princess had a short engagement. The wedding was on Twelfth Night, and Albert became Prince Albert Otter. The King built a new palace in the former Royal Parking Lot, and the happy couple lived there all year round -- except for summer, when they would visit the seaside, and Albert would save a couple of lives so as to keep his secret talent in good working order.

When the old King died, Albert ascended to the throne, and became famous as a wise and peaceful ruler. His first royal act was to abolish the tax on sea-food, thus making fish suppers affordable to everyone in the land.

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England's Pleasant Pastures Seen | Dec 22, 2008 08:18

"Is that an Australian accent?"

"New Zealand."

"Oh -- you're a Kiwi. I always think it must be funny coming from such a tiny island. How many times bigger is England than New Zealand, I wonder?"

"Well, in terms of land area, New Zealand is actually much larger than England. In fact, New Zealand is bigger than England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland all added together."

"Oh, so New Zealand's a really big country. I never knew."

No, it isn't. It's just that England is a really small country. But perhaps it's the last vestiges of empire that make it seem so much bigger in the minds of its inhabitants. I recently met a Canadian who told me he'd encountered similar astonishment when explaining that England was smaller than Canada.

We've been in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne for a few weeks now. On the one hand, it's always easy to settle into England. We speak the same language, find the same things amusing, even the landscape is similar. On the other hand, there's the English weather. Some days I've wondered why I bothered getting out of bed.

I recall an English uncle being surprised at what he termed the "height of the sky in New Zealand". He compared antipodean skies to a cathedral, whereas he thought that England had been built "with an old-fashioned nine-foot stud". For Newcastle, of course, you can shave a couple of feet off that.

Even on a rare sunny day, the Newcastle sky feels no higher than, say, 2.1 metres. In normal winter weather -- as drizzle trickles down your collar, and a clammy coldness seeps through your bones -- it's like being at the bottom of a coal mine. Throw a 3.30 pm sunset into the mix, and you've got a deeply depressing situation.

I've been sick ever since we arrived. Mediaevally sick. Last week, I coughed up something that wouldn't be out of place in an avant-garde seafood restaurant. I told Jennifer that I was now prepared for death, or -- at the very least -- to be transformed into one of those creatures you meet in science fiction films: half-man, half-mildew.

Jennifer suggested a winter holiday in the Lake District. The idea cheered me up no end. Apart from anything else, it would be an opportunity to catch up on the landscape of some of England's most interesting dead people: Wordsworth and Coleridge, Ruskin and Collingwood, and children's writers Arthur Ransome and Beatrix Potter.

A holiday also seemed like a good excuse for a haircut. The local barber was pleasantly horrified by our travel plans: "You can't go all the way to the Lake District for a weekend!" His incredulity managed to convey a British-Columbian who intends popping over to Newfoundland for morning tea. "It's right on the other side of the country, man." He paused dramatically. "It must be 90 miles away."

A car journey in England always makes me philosophical. I used to lecture on the subject of engineering history -- God forgive me -- and I'm well aware that England and Scotland are the home of the industrial revolution. The question is: where has it all gone now? Everywhere you look, the cities and the landscape are wholly devoid of industry. The only factories we saw on our travels turned out to be museums.

The answer, of course, is that England now has a service economy. The theory of this is simple: you sell me a hamburger, and I'll sell you a hamburger; and both our share prices will improve until we become fabulously rich. The only problem -- as those who've tried to post a letter via Royal Mail will realize -- is that it's doubtful that modern English people can cope with anything as technically challenging as selling a hamburger. They remind me a lot of the Portuguese. You find yourself perpetually astonished that they once managed to run an enormous empire.

I'd never been to the Lake District before, and predictably, it was much smaller than I'd imagined. Windermere, the largest lake in England, is only a fortieth the size of Lake Taupo (in fact, it's less than a third the size of Lake Coleridge, which I consider to be hardly more than a pond). Nevertheless, it's a very pleasant spot.

The landscape is widely touted as the most beautiful in England, although by New Zealand standards it's only averagely pretty. Its attractiveness is, however, notably enhanced by the farmhouses and cottages. I find that, by and large, domestic architecture in England has the same effect as make-up on a nondescript woman, who -- with a few clever dabs -- is transformed into a real looker. This is in sad contrast to New Zealand where, generally speaking, the houses are comparable to pustules on the face of a super-model. Mind you, the appeal of English housing only holds if you're not worried by living like a battery chicken.

Rain encouraged us to spend an hour or so in the Ruskin museum. As always, the museum missed out on the really interesting stuff -- such as the fact that Ruskin's five-year marriage was annulled because of his "incurable impotence". But it had some nice art by Collingwood, as well as a splendid first edition of 'Thorstein of the Mere'. The largest exhibit is a boat once belonging to Collingwood's grandchildren, and made famous by Arthur Ransome's 'Swallows and Amazons' novels.

Above: The original of 'Amazon' (click for larger image).

A break in the weather allowed us to wander along the shore of Coniston Water and dip our hands in the lake. Bob-the-baby enjoyed it so much that he had to be restrained from attempting full body immersion. We pottered about the countryside looking for somewhere to have lunch. The famous English fondness for children makes it difficult to find a watering-hole suitable for Bob; we've encountered several cafés emblazoned with "Children and Dogs Not Permitted" signs. It's also entirely legal, we've discovered, for shop-owners to eject mothers who are breastfeeding babies older than six months. Ah, those quaint English customs.

Dove Cottage, now a museum, was the place where Wordsworth banged out his most famous poem. It's a piece of writing that genuinely changed my life. I was enrolled in an English degree, and one day our tutor unexpectedly explained that 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud ' was not a piece about daffodils (as I'd previously thought), but rather a paean to Wordsworth's urination fetish. I suddenly realized my shortcomings in terms of literary analysis, and shortly thereafter transferred to Mechanical Engineering.

Jennifer and I both felt that Wordsworth's sister, Dorothy, had drawn the short straw in terms of sleeping accommodation. Her bedroom was like a fridge. I informed Jennifer that on the morning of Wordsworth's wedding, Dorothy was so upset that she stayed in her room, and refused to attend the ceremony. This, according to my English tutor, was the result of secretly wanting to shag her brother. Again, the museum was silent on this important fact.

The next morning, after preventing Bob-the-Baby from hurling himself into Windermere, we visited the oddly-named 'World of Beatrix Potter Attraction'. The town of Bowness was unbelievably busy. I'd spent the last few weeks wondering why on earth so many people were out and about -- but it was only at Bowness that I thought to figure the sums. We normally live in the South Island, where the population has just reached a million; England, smaller in area than the South Island, has a citizenry of 51 million. Fifty times busier, on average, seemed consistent with my observations.

Above: Bob dips his hand into Coniston Water (click for larger image).

The 'World of Beatrix Potter Attraction' had been recommended by an acquaintance, who'd described it as "impossible for children to dislike". The entry fee was the best part of NZ$50. Bob-the-baby examined the first attraction -- a large plastic rabbit. "No," he said decisively. Three minutes, and several-dozen negative opinions later, we emerged from the building with Bob leading the way at a sprint. It was an awfully fast way to part with money.

Bob was dead right, of course. The 'World of Beatrix Potter Attraction' is thoroughly ghastly. It's very lucky for them that Beatrix Potter is dead, because I'm sure she'd sue if she weren't (to give but one example, the shop sells a book entitled Peter Rabbit's 'I Love My Mommy').

After a stroll along the Bowness waterfront, we headed back home towards Newcastle.

Sitting on a packed motorway, I was reminded of another car journey. In my early twenties, I hitched a lift from Wellington to Auckland with a friend. He drove a mini, and contrived to invite four other friends along as well. We squished ourselves into the car like atoms inside a black hole.

The trip was an absolute nightmare. It wasn't that I disliked the mini as a car (it's brilliantly designed, and I'm a massive fan of Alec Issigonis). And it certainly wasn't that I disliked my fellow passengers (they were a great bunch). It's just that there were too many people in far too small a space. At the end of the day, I was awfully glad to leave.

The same, it seems to me, could perhaps be said of England.

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Busytown | Dec 05, 2008 10:35

New York has insomnia. Even at two o'clock in the morning -- when Bob-the-baby finally graces us with sleep -- the roar of the city penetrates the walls of our apartment. The wail of ambulance sirens. The young black men shouting to their friends on Broadway. The clip-clop of Latino girls in high-heel shoes. The holler of the 24-hour street hawkers: "You want water, folks? I got it right here. You want it cold, folks? I got it ice-cold." And the sound of several hundred-thousand motorists shouting "Fuck you!" at each other.

In the apartment next door, the pianist has started up. He's rehearsing 'Rhapsody in Blue'. I try to stop myself from counting the notes in the opening glissando. There are seventeen. The A key above middle C has something wrong with the damper, and it goes 'dong-g-g-g' every time he strikes it. I had never before realized that Gershwin was so fond of key changes; I pray that the piece will modulate into a key that doesn't contain A.

I fall asleep without noticing, and when I regain consciousness the pianist is still playing. The glissando goes '... E, F, G, dong-g-g-g'. Bob-the-baby wakes, and shouts loudly: "Grass, grass, grass, grass, grass, grass, grass..." -- an announcement that he's ready to visit Central Park. The bedside clock reads 6.30 am. I wonder what the weather is doing. The apartment's windows open onto an air-shaft, and the rooms are perpetually dark, regardless of the time of day. But if I rest the back of my head on the sitting-room windowsill, I can just perceive sunlight falling onto an upper storey of the tenement. A fine day, then.

We say goodbye to Jennifer at Cathedral Parkway station. Just across the intersection is Central Park. Bob-the-baby's legs begin to gyrate as he is lowered towards the grass. He literally hits the ground running. We have a brief father-son conversation: "Dude, where are you planning to go?" He replies by pointing both arms in opposite directions -- a gesture I interpret to mean: "The horizon."

At the swings, we meet Sarah and baby Elaine. The playground is densely populated, but Sarah is the only other adult who is a parent rather than a nanny -- a fact that seems to have put us onto a first name basis. Sarah feeds Bob a grape, and then launches into Part VII of her autobiography: "So then I decided to turn my one-woman-play into a short film. I directed and edited; one of my husband's friends did the camera work. After the première, a Hollywood producer said she wanted to turn it into a feature film. But I wasn't sure if she was more interested in my breasts than the script. You know how it is with Hollywood producers."

Above: Bob enjoys the swings.

We leave the playground, and Bob scampers to the summit of The Great Hill. A few days ago, we met a rapper called HappyBunny001, who asked if he could borrow Bob for a few hours: "Just to cruise round the park and pick up some of those young honeys." I suggest that a baby might imply the unwelcome presence of a spouse. "Far as I'm concerned, his mother died during childbirth. That gets me the sympathy vote on top of the whole cute baby vibe." It makes me realize that I've a lot to learn before I can contemplate a career in rap.

HappyBunny001 is entirely correct about Bob's chick-magnetism. A pretty young woman entices Bob into her lap. "Oh my God, your son is going to be such a handsome man when he grows up. I'm gonna write my phone number on his arm -- tell him to call me the instant he turns eighteen." She hunts for a pen in her handbag. "I just know I'm going to be into cute eighteen-year-olds when I'm forty," she says.

Bob and I return to the apartment for lunch. The pianist is silent, but now the opera-lady has begun to practise her scales. The young man in the room across the air-shaft gazes silently at his computer. The people in the apartment below him have transformed their window into an orchid paludarium -- Bob is entranced by the eerie virid light that radiates from the gro-lamps. In another apartment, a child is crying. An irritated voice drifts faintly along the air-shaft: "I wish those people would do something about that baby."

An email from Jolisa Gracewood awaits me. In one of those strange co-incidences that afflict New Zealanders, our tenement building is only a few tens of metres from her old apartment. She writes: "We used to live on West 112th Street -- just steps away from the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. If you're feeling religious one day, pop in and say hello to the peacocks who wander the grounds. And give our regards to Bank Street Books, where we spent a small fortune." She attaches a photograph of herself looking Audrey Hepburn-ish on Amsterdam Avenue.

Bob-the-baby is a big fan of the subway. I'm forced to explain (for the hundredth time) why I'm not going to let him run around the platform. A woman asks me: "Where's your accent from -- are you English?" I tell her that we're New Zealanders. "Oh, so it's an Australian accent." It takes enormous will-power to stop myself pushing her under a train.

Our destination is Staten Island. After the subway ride, Bob is positively vibrating with energy. He runs circuits around the deck of the ferry; I lumber wearily in his wake. On the island, we promenade beside the seafront, and admire the Manhattan skyline. Back on board, Bob resumes his exercise regime. After ten minutes, he spots an attractive red-head, and stops to play peek-a-boo with her.

"How can such a little boy be such a big flirt?" she asks me. A hundred metres away, Liberty Island suddenly hoves into view. I lift Bob to the handrail: "Look -- the Statue of Liberty: 'Give me your tired, your poor; your huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore -- send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.'" The pretty woman laughs: "We don't think that any more."

She insists on accompanying us to the subway. It's nearly rush hour; a teenage boy offers me his seat on the train. The bloke sitting next to us wears a hard-hat that proclaims: "America is full". "I got married when I was eighteen," he tells me. "I'm forty-three now -- we just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. I mean, sometimes I can't stand the sight of my wife, but you're married, what'ya gonna do."

"I'll tell you the secret of my success: try to get along with everyone. I've worked on all the big construction projects in Manhattan -- even 7 World Trade Center in the 1980s -- and, you know, I've never made an enemy. That's why people always like having me on the job."

The train rattles towards 112th Street; Bob-the-baby sags drowsily in my arms. Above our heads, although we don't really know it yet, the great institutions of Wall Street have disintegrated. A prosperous future is being rewritten into something far less pleasant. I wonder how many construction projects there'll be over the next few years. How many of us will lose our jobs, our homes, our health, and our happiness? What will Bob's childhood be like? Will Jennifer and I look back on our time in New York City, and say: "We were there in the last days of Busytown -- before the good times ended."

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