Stuff

16 June 201431 July 2014

Yowch

The other day, I was out and about in the Goddess’ chariot, far from the fortress, when I entered a roundabout and saw a blue car approaching from my left —

— I noticed it wasn’t slowing down — matter of fact, it was already right — riiiiight — in front of me and I thought, “You’ve got to be kidding, dude” when —

— my seatbelt tightened as we collided and the Fiat’s bonnet crumpled alarmingly towards me and I thought, “The Goddess is not going to like that” —

— my point-of-view skewed rightwards as the cars separated, the other car spinning off the road while the Fiat came to a complete stop, at a right angle to its original direction only moments earlier —

— and I thought, “Un-fucking-believable,” angry that I was involved in an accident, and in the Goddess’ chariot to boot.

I got out and ran to the other car which was already swarming with concerned motorists. The other driver was alive and moving — “I’m so sorry,” he said — and my anger disappeared. The road seemed crowded with pedestrians — every second or third one asking if I’m okay — and when I returned to the Fiat to try and get it off the road — a guy with calm efficiency told me he had it under control and why don’t I go and sit down on the verge over there.

I sat down on the grass as a half-dozen people pushed the chariot to the side of the road, others directing traffic, strangers brought together in that moment to help out, clean up, and keep things moving and safe. I was alive. So was the other driver. Things could have been so much worse but we both walked away from our vehicles that day.

Yes: unfortunately, the Italian stallion is no more:

I look at the picture and I’m grateful for engineers and crumple zones. Grateful to the motorists who stopped and helped that afternoon, foremost Phil who took charge. Grateful to Woody the police sergeant who attended the scene. And grateful to still be here.

25 May 20141 February 2017

Mucking with the G

This came to mind after a recent rodent run-in:

It’s that time of the year when some of the forest folk seek shelter in Fortress Mamea from the inclement weather. When scratching noises emanated from the kitchen, The Kitten was duly dispatched. She promptly returned to her currently favoured chair (a Sanderson linen-covered armchair) and resumed her nap.

The Dog and I were then dispatched — The Goddess exhorting us to Kill it kill it kill it — and we chased the rodent from the kitchen, through the Big Hall, around the Banquet Room and finally back to the kitchen. As The Dog and I caught our breath, the invader made Yah loser noises from deep within a cupboard.

Right then, I breathed. A trap was set with a wee treat of peanut butter.

The following morning:

A Fortress Mamea interloper who pushed their luck.

So did I do a little Sean Connery impression when I took the above photo? Yesh, I did. I hope hish friendsh were watching.

30 April 201410 July 2017

The Dog

Ever since her first appearance, The Dog has been an almost annual feature here. It’s hard to believe she’s eleven years old already. Her mortality was first brought home to us when our first chicken was killed:

EXT. PET SEMATARY, FORTRESS MAMEA

OUR WRITER and his GODDESS stare at a freshly dug grave. Our Writer rapidly blinks away a dust mote.

GODDESS

(off Writer)

If we’re this upset over a chicken, imagine when The Dog goes.

The Dog was the first addition to Fortress Mamea in 2003. A family canine was something the adult family members wanted: we’d each had a dog in our childhood, though this time around we had requirements like

no begging at the dinner table,
no sleeping on the bed,
and some actual obedience.

We were largely successful: there’s no begging at mealtimes, The Dog knows not to jump onto our bed (the children’s beds are a different matter), and she returns on command.

She and I have clocked up some serious mileage over the years (not so much for a while), but this year she was retired from the exercise regime. Long gone are the days where she would shadow me as I 1). put on my running shoes, 2). ground through some stretching exercises, and 3). collected her lead and my stopwatch from the Wall Hook of Righteous Agony. In the last few months, she has had to be coaxed more and more: at first to leave her dog bed for the brisk morning air and, later, to leave the fortress altogether.

The Dog is getting old. She’s farting more freely, her snoring is louder and more insistent, and her daily ratio of resting versus all-out-physicality has changed markedly. The Goddess and I have been meaning to get a puppy these past few years, ostensibly to keep The Dog company when we’re not at home, but we haven’t even window-shopped. I suspect, deep down, we know that to begin looking for a puppy would be to acknowledge The Dog’s mortality.

The Kitten could be seen in hindsight as a transitional stage. It is heartening to see The Dog initiate playtime with The Kitten.

THE KITTEN -- fully grown now but always referred to as “The Kitten” -- climbs through her CAT FLAP when --

-- THE DOG leaps as if from nowhere --

DOG

(translated)

You’re IT!

-- and lands a paw on the cat’s hindquarters, the dog’s mass and speed spinning the cat 360 degrees until she recovers, back arched and glaring at The Dog:

KITTEN

(translated)

Step back or die, cur.

The Dog will forever be Fortress Mamea’s first hound. And until it’s time for her to go, we’ll continue to feed her, walk her, and love her.

31 March 2014

The Camry Sportswagon

Almost ten years ago, we acquired a second-hand, New Zealand-new stationwagon. The Boy, seven at the time, took one look at the Advanti Racing alloy-shod Camry 220 GL and declared it a sportswagon. I suppose when you’re seven and you’re a Holden V8 fan with a cap and jacket to prove it, you make do with what you get.

I grew up with a succession of Ford Falcon stationwagons. A lot of my childhood holiday memories include lying in the rear cargo area, in a cocoon of blankets and luggage, en route to some faraway destination; if I got bored, I played polite games of shoot-’em-up with the driver of the vehicle behind us.

I never thought I’d end up driving a Toyota as an adult. They’re so ubiquitous that… well, I thought Other People drove the damned things. Not me.

But the Camry grew on me. The 2.2-litre engine is a good compromise between around-town trips and our annual cross-country holidays. It’s wide enough to give each occupant room to move — on long trips, the kids would fill up the backseat and footwell with a myriad of items to keep them occupied. The rear cargo area can accommodate: luggage for five; film-making gear; a month’s grocery shopping; or firewood aplenty (with the backseat folded forward). It’s a workhorse, baby, and it can take on any job you throw at it.

I know that, alloys aside, we’ve got a stock Camry. But there’s something about our ‘wagon that makes it stand out from the rest of the ‘wagons out there.

And you know what it is? They’re not sportswagons.

(This post started out as a bit of a love-post in 2007. I thought I’d published it ages ago but obviously haven’t. So why now? The Camry is about to be retired. We added 200,000+kms to the odometer, traversed State Highway 1 innumerable times in it, and it has long been Fortress Mamea’s faithful and reliable war- and work-horse. A farewell ceremony involving fish ‘n’ chips and lipstick is scheduled in the very near future.)

6 March 201410 July 2017

More —

— animal pics: this wee fulla I came across whilst doing some research and just had to share.

And now for the usual suspects.

The Cat after some under-the-house exploring.

We usually refrain from giving the animals’ actual names but our rooster’s handle is just too cool for school:

Some proper posting will follow.

29 November 201310 January 2016

As threatened —

— animal pictures.

Fresh Fortress Mamea recruits on small unit manoeuvres.

31 October 20134 October 2016

31 October

Ah crap: that day of the year again.

When The Goddess won’t allow trap-a-treaters —

— or a vaguely themed obstacle course —

— this evening’s roamers and their chaperones will get just one warning:

Yeah whatever.

28 October 2013

Health Warning: Pix to Follow

When in doubt – or experiencing a dearth of bloggable material – post pictures.

For starters – by special ~~demand~~ request: Fortress Mamea’s mounted element, The Kaimanawa Pony.

The Kaimanawa Pony

1 July 2013

dfmamea.com: Year Seven

After 2012’s rather ho-hum happy-anniversary, how do I feel this year?

Not bad, thanks!

Pretty good, actually!

It feels like I’m beginning to get the hang of this writing thing!

11 December 2012

Tessa 2000-2012

The Cat – actual handle Countessa de Kitty-Kat – was buried in the fortress pet cemetery late last week.

When I first met Tessa in 2002, she was a bit of a poor excuse for a feline – watching her climb a fence always made me flash on the unfortunate Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket. She wasn’t heavy or anything – just… out of practice with being a cat, or something like that. She was friendly enough (no random attacks received), well-mannered (when handled with care, she gave fair warning when enough was enough), and low maintenance (she always toileted outside).

In 2003, Tessa went through a number of major life-events. The aiga, numbering three humans at that time, moved westward to what was to become Fortress Mamea. The new abode had its own resident cat, Pablo (full handle Pablo Ninja Cat), a large and gregarious chap. The aiga swelled with the sudden arrival of a fourth human, The Boy. And then The Dog was acquired.

Each change was a challenge for Tessa. She sealed her place in the fortress hiearchy with the patient and successful stalking of a mouse under the oven. She shunned Pablo who enjoyed our company until the word ‘diet’ was mentioned, whereupon he adopted the lovely Gladys across the road (who feeds him – I shit you not – on a 24/7 basis). Tessa’s relationships with late arrivals The Boy and The Dog could easily have been the final straws… but both boy and canine soon found their place in the fortress hierarchy (below the cat).

The fortress grounds have ample trees and vegetation, and soon enough, Tessa learned how to scale fences and trees like a real cat. The local fauna have provided other exercise, the past decade scattered with the remains of a mouse, bird or rat tastefully left outside the back door for the unsuspecting barefoot occupant. In winter she loved the wood burner – curled whiskers a specialty – while in the summer she soaked in the sun like a four-legged black hole.

Tessa will be missed. She was loved by The Girl and The Goddess. And although The Boy and I dreaded the racket she would make at the back door to be let into the house for —

a). fuss,
b). food,
c). warmth,
d). company,
e). a). through to d).

— we have found ourselves waiting to hear it in the morning, curses on the tips of our barely awake tongues – only to realise Tessa is no longer with us.

May there be plentiful 1kg blocks of tasty cheddar cheese wherever she is now.