Book-Book remains at large

So, at the beginning of February 2011, Ian repurposed a loop of aluminium with handle (a P.G. Harding-designed whitebait scoop-net), quite a number of clothes pegs, and my strawberry protection netting, and made a trap to catch Book-Book.

First, he caught George.

Then he rigged it so that a piece of string extending to the kitchen window hook was all that stood between Book-Book and captivity.

Witness the little bowl of tempting grain.
Witness the cage that would transport her to Dunsandel.

You will simply have to take my word for the scissors that remained on the kitchen window-sill for 4 weeks, waiting for the opportunity to CHOP the string and capture the hole-digging, tomato-stripping, lettuce-thieving wee beastie.

Day after day I arose early, confident of capturing her. She took to roosting in the bush yonder (above and to the left of the clothes-line) and several times I was up before her. Chickens do apparently lie in.

On the very hot day of which I have written previously, she was in the target zone at 6.30 am while I, in my dressing-gown, was in the kitchen making hot drinks. Fearful of fatally loosening the one "dressing-gown cord that ruled it all" in full view of the neighbours, I instead whisked through with great speed and care to the bedroom to summon my collaborator, but by the time he was sufficiently awake to grasp the urgency and jump into clothes, Book-Book had pecked her way out of the target zone.

That was sadly our last chance for weeks. Whether she recognised the great danger, or whether the grain became less tempting, or whether I just wasn't in the right place at the right time, I cannot say.

All I do know is that by the time she was next seen in the target zone, the Earthquake had happened, the window was shut, and when I frantically cut the string it jammed in the window frame long enough for her to jump sideways out of danger.

I have seen her since but our relationship is, if possible, more fraught than before; I fear that she will not allow herself ever to be lovingly ensnared - let alone understand how much we admire her - pluck.

Christchurch, February 2011 - Sombreblog

I wrote this blog in mid-February but didn't post it because I wasn't absolutely sure of my facts about broken sewers being used. I'm going to post it now for its blistering irony. The quake we had since I wrote this had a much worse effect on both the city and the eastern and southern suburbs. I haven't visited the east since writing this but I've seen the telly and I've talked to people who live there. Many of the places we cycled through that day are now off-limits again, and many of the buildings which had "sort-of" survived the September quake are now flattened. Sombreblog indeed. The only reason I have time to post this today is that the latest aftershock killed our servers and I can't work.

On Waitangi Day, Ian and I arose early and went for a bike ride. We do it every now and then, whether we need to or not. The day was forecast to be a scorcher - at 8:30 it was already very warm - so it was a case of do it early or die. We treddlied into Joe's Garage in town, circumnavigating the earthquake fencing in Beckenham, Sydenham, and Manchester Streets. Joe's Garage is on the corner of Hereford and Liverpool Streets, just along from the hole that was Manchester Courts. Now the ancient skyrise is a vacant lot, apart from some very strong looking steel back stairs and a few remaining piles of antique bricks.

After a swift but ample brekkie surrounded by Tonka toys, we set off again across Latimer Square towards the fire station on Kilmore Street, then diverted along into the Avon Loop. We then proceeded to follow the Avon all the way to Brighton, as it meandered through Avonside, Dallington, and Wainoni. Although this is our second expedition of this sort to the eastern 'burbs since the big earthquake, 5 months on it is even more shocking, really, to see portaloos still on the streets and sewer pumps still operating along the river. The roads have mostly been repaired, but you clearly see where fissures have crossed the road and done untold damage to the neighbouring houses. The damage is sometimes subtle - all looks well, except that the angle of the whole dwelling is very slightly wrong. Often it's the garden that gives it away - weeds and long grass grow where once people lived.

I couldn't take pictures - it would have been offensive. You expats will just have to try to imagine.

Five months on, and still there are many roads with signs saying "Residents Only".

Five months on, and people are moving back into their damaged homes because they know they will run out of money later on if they don't.

Five months on, and the council is sending people letters telling them they will be fined if they don't mow their lawns.

Five months on, and people are using the broken sewers, because wouldn't you? rather than send your children to the nearest portaloo on the street at midnight?

It's unspeakably tremendous that no-one was killed, but the damage was massive and costly. The rowing club still has fissures in the carpark that are so wide I couldn't cross them without dismounting. Without pictures, I find it difficult to describe Porritt Park, which we biked across, taking the greatest care to find safe ways across the great cracks. The grass has been replaced, about 50/50, with the finest sand. The artificial hockey fields which we visited so often with George and his mates now look like badly made beds. I can only presume that the land under the houses has done much the same thing - it's just a lot more visible in the open spaces.

Postscript: By the time we were on the home straight to Brighton it was very, very hot. The promised beer at the pier drew me like a magnet and I biked faster and faster the closer I got. Indescribable joy to drink beer and then go down to the seaside and paddle while we waited for George to come and pick us up. We were home by midday, feeling virtuous; the mercury hit 36 in the afternoon and at midnight on Sunday it was still 27 degrees. Cor, blimey!