3D printing for kids

This is too cool for words and if you have schools that want to push technological (early childhood) education, this looks a pretty good idea.   Kind of Sesame Street 3D printing.   Me: I just like the machine's colours.

Letter to the New Zealanad Listener on the Internet-Mana Party, published in the June 21st issue

I've been feeling the temptation to vote for Internet-Mana, for no better reason than the impulse to give someone else a go, who isn't part of the self-referential New Zealand political complex.   That said, by doing things like writing to the Listener's Letters, 21 June, I'm kind of making myself part of that complex.   No easy answer to that one.

My letter, published in the New Zealand Listener, about the value of volunteer work, and the potential value of  tax-deductible status to that work - 



Thanks for the recent article on the donations made by the very wealthy (“And the giver is …”, May 17). The donor’s largesse is a return to one of the better Victorian sensibilities: the generally understood moral imperative for the most fortunate to aid those least fortunate. Good on them and long may it continue.

I spend about a day a week doing volunteer work for a local charity. I drive, move furniture, take photos for them, fix and make things. The work has given me a far better understanding of people, and watching the way many deal with real adversity has taught me humility. Hundreds of people freely give far more of their time than I do for no better reasons than their belief that it’s the right thing to do and they can’t afford to donate money.

What about recognising their valuable labour the same way donations are recognised: with tax credits. This is done in some places; many areas in the US give their volunteer firefighters tax credits because they recognise the number of lives and value of the property protected by the “vollies” is considerable.

It could be of great value to New Zealand to open the conversation about tax credits for long-term volunteers in non-profit, socially beneficial institutions because of the financial and societal benefits of increasing volunteer rates for organisations that are expert at getting maximum value from money, while they foster learning new skills and greater social involvement.

David Cohen
(Dunedin North, Dunedin)

Deb Howell, a published local writer of the novel: "Healer's Touch", interviewed me for the launch "Felinity" - an anthology to which I contributed a story.

The half-billion dollar shortfall in rebuild funding - letter to the New Zealand "Listener"

Sir -
I lived in Christchurch for 45 years and the news of a 500 million dollar shortfall for a rebuild makes me wonder if it's time for both Central Government and the City Council to taihoa on some of the more grandiose projects that are attempting to force redevelopment into a CBD that is looking redundant and outmoded as the city reshapes its activity around multiple centres.

"Anchor" projects are inessential when compared to tasks like returning sewerage and storm-water systems to full functionality, and backing away from the giant projects - such as a city stadium - for the foreseeable future could substantially reduce the rebuild's financial burden while allowing the city to reclaim basic functionality.

After the Listener's excellent article "Shock of the View", I also wonder if it may also be better to let the people of Christchurch redevelop their city's liability organically rather than be regimented into a centralised plan that already looks inappropriate and too expensive.

The end of the Mall?

Is this the future of mass-market retail? - there is a forecast that around 15% of the malls in the US are going to close over the next decade, and given that New Zealand commodity retail is moving to on-line in a similar way, will this happen here, one day?   

The following link goes to some fascinating photos and comment at Fast Company.

  Eerie Photos of Abandoned Shopping Malls Show the Changing Face of Suburbia

But there is hope - this was Seattle's response to a failed mall's giant car park.

A short story - Mundane Love

            She kissed me through a tangle of her hair to wake me up.
            After I could speak: ‘What was that for?’

            ‘Stuff.’   Her mouth twitched up a corner.   ‘Fixing my car.   And for this holiday.   And I want to get in to this day.’

            ‘Ever my pleasure, my love.’   I rolled on to my side, sat up, plonked my feet on the floor, gave a jaw-wrenching yawn and summoned the will to stand and walk to the window.   I pulled back the curtain and flinched a little at the day’s impact on my hung-over head.   ‘Awfully bright out there.   We could just stay in for a bit.’

            ‘So we came to Melbourne to shag and sleep?   I want to get out there and shop and have breakfast and if you’ve got a sore head that’ll teach you to try and keep up with me.   Self-inflicted injury: no sympathy.’   She swung her feet out of bed and stretched upward to where I could hear her joints crack.   ‘The fucking and sleeping can come after the shopping.’   As she stood her blue pyjamas bunched and she fixed a wedgie with a one legged wriggle and a snap of the waistband.

            ‘After the shopping.   Right.   So just remind me where the last 30 years of feminism went.’   I ducked to avoid the pillow she threw at me.   It went on to sweep the table lamp to the floor with a crash that was very loud in the morning quiet.   We looked at each other, wide eyed and couldn't not laugh.   I was still snorting as I went over to salvage the lamp.   It was in one piece but the shade now had a good ding and sat at a jaunty angle.

            ‘Oh shit. Gimme that.’   Her blunt fingers gently pressed the shade back into symmetry with a pop.   ‘All good.’   She put the lamp back on the table with exaggerated care.

            Her hands fascinated me.   Their muscular kneading of bread; the secure scooping up the kids; their coolness on my head when I felt sick and the way they clamped to me and grooved my flesh in the sweaty night.   I loved her worker’s hands; her motherly hands and my lover’s hands, their smooth skin puckered by a couple of old scars and her left index finger with that strange kink from being broken.   In a candid moment I had told her about my fixation and she had laughed and then realized I was serious and had started painting her normally plain, short nails a violent scarlet chosen – at least partly - for its effect on me.

            She saw me looking at her.   ‘What are you gawkin' at?’ and twitched that asymmetric smile.

            ‘You know. Those hot hands.’   I was grinning too.   ‘Race you to the loo.’

            ‘Shit no!   I’m going first.   I want to live.’   And she was through the bathroom door before I could move or protest.

            I sat on the end of the bed and in morning abstraction yawned and bounced gently on the mattress.   My joints protested a little as I stretched and I wondered how many times I'd waited for her to use the bathroom over the last 25 years - I'd still never seen her pee and for that I'm so very grateful: we all need a little bit of mystery and privacy.

            The door popped open with a: ‘Done!’ I wandered in, undressed quickly and hopped into the shower.   I like the better class of hotel showers: new, lots of volume and best of all you didn't have to clean them afterwards.   The steam began to cut through my head’s fog, but the vigorous water was hot enough to make me yelp.

            ‘Wimp!’ she said.

            ‘Oh really?’   I put my hand on the tap.   ‘Really, really?.’

            ‘You wouldn't dare!’

            I like a challenge, so I smiled sweetly, relaxed my hand on the tap, then flicked the mixer to maximum cold and wrenched it straight back to hot.   The frigid dousing made us both dance around like we were having ECT, but at least I was braced for it.

            ‘You fucker!’

            ‘So who's a wimp?’

            ‘Bastard.'   A statement.   'Wash my hair.’   Affronted command.

            I took a generous handful of the shampoo and began to massage it into her scalp.  ‘Oy.   Your hair.   That red curly forest still makes my pupils dilate.’

            ‘I remember you told me that when we were dating.’   She sighed and made a face. 'Bit more white in it these days.’ 

            ‘It wasn’t the only thing I told you.   Turned out to be a catalogue of things I liked. My youth; your red hair and uniform.’   

            ‘You always were a wordy man.   To be expected, I s’pose, it is what you do.'   The compliment had straightened her back but as I worked up a lather she dropped her head dropped forward as I gave her neck a firm massage.

            ‘Oh God.   I knew I married you for a reason.   Keep doing that and if you play your cards right...’   The sentence tailed off into a little growl and a continuing roll of her shoulders.

            I smiled, working at releasing the tension in her scalp; enjoying the feel of her relaxing under my touch and the astringent scent of the shampoo.   'A lot more hair to wash these days - used to be one step up from peach fuzz.'  

            'Practical then, and got used to it now, and it covers some of the damage.'

            I moved my hands to the nape of her neck and felt one of the old scars – the big one that runs right down and bisects her shoulder tattoo.   'I like your hair longer. And not that much damage, now.   Gives you character.   Huh.   Like you need more character!   How is it today?’  

            ‘Good. No stiffness even.   Forgot to tell you - the quack, uh, Major, who did my last medical was the one who dug the shrapnel out of me and said he was very happy with seeing his handiwork again.   Cheeky bugger.   But at least I outrank him now.'   I could feel her grin at that one.

            A memory came unbidden of nearly passing out the first time I helped a nurse change her dressings: you don’t know intimacy until your beloved sneezes and you have to use a towel to stanch a flow of blood from torn stitches.   She didn't notice me clench.

            'That massage therapist you sent me off to has worked wonders.   Now if she could just be a guy who looks like Daniel Day Lewis.’

            ‘Really?   You like tall, dark and Saturnine?   I never knew.’   The old and oft-told joke was as frequently used and as comforting  as an old pair of jeans; plenty of life left.

            She turned and looked at me.   ‘Saturnine!?’ and gave me a laughing kiss that blended with the falling water and dissolved my heart and allayed my fears as it always does.   ‘Keep washing, you’re not done yet.’

            I resumed work on her hair and the tips of my fingers again found the scar of their own accord.   ‘looks better as well.’ I kissed the shiny skin and began to work on her scalp and loved the feel of my hands in the slippery hair and how firm I could be with her physically – truth be known she was three quarters my size and twice  as tough – and so unlike the angry fragile bear she became when she was injured.  

            I kept washing and then began to rinse, her hair flattening under the shower’s torrent she said: ‘Hey, attention to task! Drowning here.’

            I blinked and a rush of feeling made me wrap my arms around her sides and cup her belly.   'Sorry, just thinking.'   I could just feel the caesarean scar and a pair of my tears were lost in the thinning foam and shower spray as I bowed my head and spoke in to the shampoo's remnants in her hair.   ‘I cannot imagine what my life would have been would be like if I hadn't met you.’

            She turned to face me and cupped my cheek in her palm; a gesture fleeting and infinitely tender.   ‘Don't you go all sentimental on me, my love’, and she grinned. ‘Does that make me your knight in shining armour?’   She paused, frowning ‘Princess in shining armour?’

            The intense moment faded into simple happiness of being right here, right now.   ‘So long as there isn’t an armoured chastity belt involved I'll be quite happy.’

            She stood on tiptoe and kissed me, hand still at my cheek.   ‘Okay, you need to shave.   I'm not getting sandpapered.’

            ‘Yes mam.   Anything else I could do for you?   Pierce my Willy? ‘

            ‘No, shaving will do, and don’t call me mam.’   She rolled her eyes.   ‘Get more than enough of that at work.’

            ‘Sir?’

            ‘Don’t push your fucking luck.’

            ‘It’s holidays, I wanna’ I whined, channelling our daughter at about age 15.   I reached for my shaving things, squirted out some shaving gel and felt my whiskers rasp and move under my hand as I worked it in.   She was reading the tube.   ‘Trying something new.   Pete put me onto it and it should stop my shaving rash.   And stop sniggering.   Men can share grooming tips!’   I put both my hands on my hips and struck a masculine, heroic pose: not easy stark naked and dripping with water, but I like to think I could pull it off.

            ‘You ponce.   Married for all these years and I never knew.   Well then Mr bloody good grooming, I'll shave you if it’s too much like hard work.’   She took my razor and began to neatly scrape my face of a night’s worth of whiskers.   This was an old game for us and we stayed quiet as she smoothed my face.   Her from concentration and me because I value my skin and didn’t want to present a moving target, no matter how practised the barber.

            I couldn't help grinning.

            'Hold still, dammit.'   She paused.   'And what's so funny?'

            'How much we play.   Uh..."Mummy, what is Action Man doing to Ken?"

            The asymmetric grin surfaced.   'Christ, maybe we shouldn't have arranged them so it looked like they were shagging, but it was worth it for the looks we got.   And I hate stupid war toys.  

            'Ken's a civilian.'

            'OK.   And Ken dolls.   And bloody Barbie for that matter.'

            'And we didn't get thrown out, either.'

            She laughed aloud.   'At least the supermarket staff have stopped being so weird around us.

            My turn to laugh.   'Do you think it was the feeding each other the product samples or the long toss with the bread?'

            Her mouth twisted a little. 'Maybe both? Hold still.   For a second.   There.’   She wiped a hand under my chin ‘All smooth and reasonably clean.’   She knew how to play me and I loved it.

            She rinsed the conditioner out of her hair with a messy flourish that left me spluttering; I finished and we clambered out of the tub.   Good hotel towels: fluffy, soft and magically renewed.   Money well spent.

            ‘Let's do this bloody day.   I want breakfast.’

            ‘What, no shopping first!?’

            ‘I need to nosh before I do a march, and so do you.   I don’t need a grumpy my-blood-sugar-is-low bag boy.’

            ‘Well my love, nice to know my place in the order of things.’

            ‘Make it up to you later.’

            ‘Yes, you’d better.’   I flicked at her with my towel and got the finger in return as she launched herself out the bathroom door.

            I heard the hair drier start up in the next room, so I took my time.   Big and mechanical it was a souvenir of a posting to Canada and the damn thing made only marginally less noise than a jet engine.   She loved it, but the cat did tend to bolt when it was running and I just kept clear.   I finished drying myself, used the toilet and as the apocalypse ended next door, I wiped a clear space in the mirror and did a check for errant nose hairs.   She came back in to see me, eyes watering, attempting to pluck out a tenacious hair.

            'Uh, I do have a pair of little scissors with me.   Here.'  

            She watched me pick up the little weapon and cautiously approach my right nostril.   It made me look carefully at my nose's slight bend and then, from the corner of my eye, I caught her watching me.

            'Your nose.   Christ.   I still feel that.'

            'My love, you broke it by accident and I think it gives my face a needed asymmetry.   And this damn mirror is very unforgiving!'  

            'I ended up putting pillows between us.   God, why didn't I go to another bed?'

            'Because I wouldn't let you.   Your night terrors after...' I couldn't finish '...so let's take today day by the scruff of the neck my lover, because those pillows are the only thing that you have ever put between us.'

            She put her hand gently on my shoulder, gave me a soft look I didn't really need to interpret, and left the room without a word.

            I went back to pruning my nose hairs.   Almost by accident I looked myself in the eye and appraising what I saw in the mirror all I could think was: ‘You fortunate fellow’.   I wandered out to get dressed.

            She looked over my shoulder as I rummaged in my bag for clothes.   ‘How the hell do you find anything in that mess?’ My packing and organisation had always appalled her. Some years ago she had stuck a biohazard sign to my office door.

            ‘Braille and sense of smell.’

            ‘Idiot.’   A kiss on my neck.

            I hooked up her bra for her – an old courtesy – and we talked about the nothings that meant everything.   What we wanted to do, where lunch might be good and if our livers would stand another wine tasting.

            ‘Pass me my ring, will you?’   I picked it up and began to laugh.   ‘What?’ she said, perplexity writ large, 'is that!'

            ‘Toothpaste, I think.   Likely mine.’   I sniffed.   ‘Yep, toothpaste.’

            ‘You bugger.   How?’

            ‘Not sure.’   I took the ring and wiped it on my towel ‘it’s clean now!’  

            ‘Ewww, you grub.’  

            She might have had a point and to deflect her outrage: ‘I remember giving you this so keenly. I wondered why you were so serious and quiet and then you actually went down on one knee and proposed. That kiss is still one of the sweetest memories in my life. That and watching you laugh like a madwoman when I pulled out this', I waved the ring, 'from my sock drawer for what I was planning myself.   And then you said “next time”!’

            She gave a theatrical groan.   ‘And I remember you said what the hell did I mean by “next time”.   What’s worse is that you’re still dining out on that old story.   C’mon, let's get out there to something new.’   She started to laugh.   ‘Christ.   Look at us.   We look like Japanese Tourists.’

            ‘Eh? Oh.   Perhaps we have been round each other too long.’   We’d both grabbed jeans, boots and leather jackets.   She shrugged her jacket off and pulled on a dark green wool coat that really did suit her better.   ‘Nice: very Vogue’ I said.

            As we went to the door I stopped to pull the room key out of it’s slot to shut off the lights, and as we crossed the dark threshold, she put her arms around me.   ‘Not a day too many’, and her kiss was a sunburst in my head.

A short story is sent in to the world...

I have a short story coming out in a collection "Felinity" from Kristell Ink, and here it is on Goodreads.   It seems I'm about to become a published author.   Wonders may never cease and would like to thank the Good People at Kristell Ink for the opportunity.

Living in New Zealand - Agricultural and Pastoral Shows

The first thing you notice about walking into the A&P show ground is the ground itself: there's been rain and the paddock is not much above sea level, so it's like walking on a grassy marshmallow and you feel like you're about to plunge a foot through the surface in to sucking mire.   You don't, but it explains why all the locals wear gumboots to something like this; the Blueskin Bay A&P show on Otago Peninsula.   

A&P Shows are big thing here, and the biggest in the country is the Canterbury A&P Show, run in Christchurch, covering a 145 Ha (around 350 acre) site.   It's a big deal and big Agri-business - New Zealand's biggest export earner.

No real danger of that at Blueskin Bay, as it's a lot more down home, is run on the shared Rugby/Football field at Bland Park and features a lot more local participation; some of which works better than others but all in good fun.   

The City Council are there because Dunedin's physical boundaries are immense and include small communities like this within it's 3300 sq. kM.   They are looking for submissions, actual participation from citizens, in the formation of the  annual plan, and I saw the Mayor about, in jeans and boots, saying hi to the locals.

The longest queues are at the food stalls and the sausage-in-piece-of-bread (you want sauce and onions with that?), Bahjee, clam chowder and the coffee lines are about equal length.   What pervades it all is the smell of deep-fried and caffeinated goodness and on a cool day they're doing good business.

 
 
 









There are dogs of all shapes, sizes and colours and, being country dogs, there's no fighting, no barking and they range from tiny cheerful tufts of fur on the end of a lead that looks like a battleship's hawser; to a very popular, very tactile Adopt a Greyhound stall; to what I think may be the world's most patient animal.




And being a country show, the entertainments are largely home-grown, like the "Death of a land crab" competition, which probably takes some explaining for anyone not from the Commonwealth or under 40.

This Morris 1800 and it's ilk were front wheel drive cars, hence "land crabs", and were the cars that helped make Britain's motor industry the giant it is today.   They started in the late 1950s with the Mini (which was a good idea) and then the impulse to grow the cars in size, power and complexity took over (less of a good idea).   The cars featured things like better drag coefficients if driven in reverse (the Austin Allegro) and pre-installed rust (the Austin Maxi).   The big ones, in the 1970s, were six cylinder beasts (actually quite a bad idea) that were known to do things like shoot you into the scenery, or strip front wheel nuts, if you applied too much power when cornering hard.   

The competition was that you could, for two dollars, guess how long it would take the car's engine to quit after a brick was placed on the accelerator.   Given they'd drained out the engine oil and coolant, I was in for 4 minutes.   Putting a pound of butter in the top of the engine seemed odd as a protest against deep sea oil mining, but what do I know.   

A friendly local contractor towed (with a U.S. built skid-loader) the Morrie into the centre of the ring and people started to gather for the execution.   It wouldn't start.   A demonstration from a local martial arts club held centre stage to keep the mob pacified for half an hour while things were tried and a jump start from a Toyota Hilux (not missing the irony in that one) got it going.  The brick was dropped, people retired to a safe distance and the timer was started after nearly 30 minutes of fiddling.   How long until there was a bang and a cloud of terminal smoke?   Four seconds.   The young woman with the timer was laughing so hard she had problems standing and when I left them to it there was, I think, the equivalent of a steward's enquiry going on.



The kid's entertainment was home-made as well.   We've all seen things like ring-toss, ball games, Wheel-of-Fortune arrangements and such, so how about a Trebuchet that has been knocked up out of 4x2, concrete blocks and optimism.   It was, thank god, only launching windfall apples at a straw bale target.   The Ballista is just behind  - cell phone cameras have their limitations - and the only people who seemed game to use it were the bods from the Volunteer Fire Brigade.

This cheerful young fellow was running the kids train around.   He is authorised to do so as he's wearing a white dust jacket, a staple of the officials at country shows, but they could be doing anything from gate security to judging produce: it pays to ask.   And yes, that is a ride-on lawnmower and those are plastic barrels, daisy-chained together on tiny little wheels.










Sadly, the days when kids could clamber  all over giant agricultural machinery are over: I spent many happy youthful times scrambling up things like combine harvesters, where a misplaced step would have resulted in a fall in to the static but still quite spiky headers: we had to make our own entertainments, then...





And thinking of machinery, A&P shows take power tools to a whole new level.  This is a small hedge cutter.   The blades are about a metre long and spin fast enough to sound like a helicopter.   The big trimmers look like a Giraffe crossed with a tank and can rip an arm-thickness branch out of a hedge like this without noticing it.   I've always thought a safe distance to watch hedge trimming is about half a kilometre.   Like I said: making one's own entertainments.

Once a month there is a market on the first Sunday of the month at Blueskin Bay - Community Market at Blueskin Bay, and you can get a little of the flavour of the show, there.