Penguin Pants!

Let's take a little stroll.
At present I am harbouring a nasty little imp. This imp is gobbling all my creative spirit and leaving me longing. The imp has no name, he has no rhyme, he is just there stopping me, everytime I sit down to add to my mental meanderings. Damned frustrating creature he is.

I am still riding my bike, still enjoying the pleasure of rolling unhindered, the joy of familiar roads and new ones. I am still slack jawed in wonderment at the world and it's random moments of serendipity and synchronicity that it dishes up. I was rendered speechless, agog, the other evening as I pulled out of the supermarket carpark when I witnessed a shooting star, a meteor, of grand proportions arc across the firmament. It was as if I had been slapped.

I am still deriving pleasure from music, although some who know me, consider my taste in music to be, at best, eclectic or, at worst, offensive and unpleasant. Likewise food, literature, conversation still hold crisp. But creating, spinning words has been blocked, as if by an unseen and unbidden creature.

So, in an attempt to sidestep him, I shall recall a tale or two from my childhood. Not another story of cross dressing, or even learning physics the hard way, this is a collection of oddments from several visits to the Little River A&P show. First up I would like to tender an belated apology to any of the affected parties, but I'd wager they will never be aware of them.

The Little River Show, it was always in Summer, and typically warm to hot, in the sheltered valley, just off the Main Akaroa Highway. It was a permanent fixture in my childhood and youth, as a visitor and also competitor. My cousin and I ran free there, with twenty cents to spend and adventure to acquire. And adventure we did amass over several years, but we also caused amusement and consternation for others along the way.

Moment one. My parents had left earlier for the day, my uncle was charged with bringing my cousin and I home. He stopped, after the show, at the Little River Pub. We, my cousin and I, had to stay outside, in the carpark. My uncle had a company car, a Hillman Hunter station wagon, or maybe a faceless Vauxhall, I can't remember exactly, except it was a mustard colour. Two boys, time on their hands, soon roamed the carpark, what we found were preying mantises, and a number of egg cases. We collected the egg cases, a good number of them, and wandered the gravel carpark. After an hour or so, my uncle emerged from the bar, and we drove home, leaving the egg cases in his car, in the glove box. For the next few weeks my uncle was puzzled, then troubled, by an ever increasing number of juvenile preying mantises that keep appearing in his car, until one day, in desperation he opened the glove box. Words were said.

Moment two. I had a grey 12:2 pony who was fiercely intelligent and bloody minded. He would buck me off, then stand and stare at me, would bite if annoyed, could open gates and remove his halter. He was a terror, around 18 years old, but youthful in looks and attitude. One year, the Little River show, and I was standing holding the reins, while I engaged in polite conversation with a family friend. My pony, Tom, was standing behind me. After a short period there was muffled complaint and then louder protest behind. I turned to find that my pony had rubbed his bridle off, it lay on the ground, and had leisurely strolled over to a picnicing family. There he was standing on the edge of the blanket and nosing through their cake tin. I garbed him, and a hasty retreat was made.

Moment three. Another year. My cousin, yes the same one, had a golden labrador, Cass. Cass was entire, and quite a magnificent dog (the first and last time I shall ever apply that adjective to a lab). The three of us, dog and two boys, roamed free at the show. Running back from watching the woodchopping, Cass had to stop and leave his signature on a prominent spot. What he chose was a touch unsuitable, it was square between the shoulders of a chap sitting picnicing with his familiy. My cousin and I fled almost crippled with mirth, and I can still hear the yells from the chap today.

As an adult, a townie now, I am always a touch embarrassed attending shows, but I am also well aware of the traps and pitfalls that lie there, ready to lend laughter to small boys. I do hope that they still happen.