Russell Kirkpatrick's Journal
I've been picked as part of the six-man Waikato Masters (over 40) golf team. I am a god, and you must bow down before me. w00t.
Today was the final trial, and I played under a slight handicap - a tooth twinge has exploded into full-on toothache. I'm climbing into the Nurofen, which dulls it a bit, and counting down the hours until tomorrow when I can hit the emergency dentist for what's likely to be my sixth root canal - yes, I'm something of an expert on them.
I'm watching the Olympic men's triathlon. Great stuff - men in their prime competing on a combination of strength, stamina and strategy. Highly entertaining, inspirational, and an encouragement to extend one's own horizons.
Then the ads hit. We get three ads in a row: the first is a young fellow suffering mouth and throat cancer because he'd smoked. DON'T SMOKE. The second is a family dad who crashes his car with his family because he fell asleep at the wheel. DON'T DRIVE TIRED. The third is World Vision asking us to give to children dying of hunger. GIVE TO THOSE LESS FORTUNATE.
So what does this weight of mortality do to us as viewers? Might it not crush the spirit out of us? Don't get me wrong: each of those ads is worthy, but together they undo the inspiration granted by the Olympics. What do you think?
Not a very catchy title for a blog, I'll admit. Things are ticking along - in fact, I'm rather busy, which explains the lack of blogging.
Organised and ran Dorinda's mum's memorial service last week, held down in Christchurch. It went well, everyone thought, though we had a few dramas - we got cheap tickets from Auckland to Christchurch return, but halfway to Auckland on the morning of the service the car died. So there we were by the side of the road, Vi's ashes in the back of the car, making ready to ring everyone we knew was coming to tell them it was off. Fortunately a mechanic lived across the road, and diagnosed a dead battery. Some jumper leads later I drove carefully the rest of the way, knowing that the next time the engine died it wouldn't start again. Left the car at a repair shop by the airport.
Off to Christchurch, only to discover there wasn't a rental car to be had at the airport. Time was short, but we found one eventually. The service was the easy part: my projector and laptop worked, and those who attended enjoyed or endured a multimedia presentation of Vi's life, including many old photos not seen by her family.
Got back to Auckland that evening only to discover I'd left my wallet at the security scan area in Christchurch. Excellent. Now I had no means of paying for the car. Airport security rang their Christchurch counterparts but the wallet hadn't been found. Nor had it been handed in to the Airport Company or the police. We joked about the Toyota ad where the fellow sets off a nationwide hunt only to find the wallet in his pocket.
A series of grovelling apologies later we were on our way back home after an eventful, emotional and tiring day.
Still thinking about writing, though I've had a three-week break from actually doing it in the aftermath of Vi's death. Back to it today: time to explore the nature of love in what I consider the real heart of the six-book sequence. Romantic love is in for a bit of a bashing, I'm afraid, given I'm tempted to think that society trains women to value the idea of romantic love, to aspire to it, because it provides the most effective mechanism whereby women can be controlled. These next three chapters are going to be interesting...
Playing in the obligatory trial tournaments in an attempt to be selected for the Waikato Masters golf squad. Came fifth in both the Cambridge and Te Puke masters tournaments, not a bad effort given there were top players from Auckland and Bay of Plenty as well as Waikato. Trouble is, if I get selected I can't go to Conflux, as the dates clash with the major Masters event.
No more rambling. Time for a long-awaited bunflight between supporters and detractors of romantic love, and I genuinely do not know who is going to win.