Charity - it seems is big business.

I like to give to charities I agree with but I do not like being coerced into giving.  That, I believe is what many of us will agree with. The annual Poppy appeal, the Macmillan Coffee mornings, the Red Cross and other deserving charities.  Each of these and many others compete for my equivalent of the "widow's mite", and I will give what I can when I feel like it.  I also believe many of us also like to do that too without having to commit to regular amount, unless of course you choose to do so.

Chuggers on the streets seem to attack you with a similar spiel to the telephone sales techniques of the double glazing companies of the past, and become persistent in their pursuit of a monthly sum.  There are other organisations, equally as worthy of funding as any other, dealing with Birds, Asthma , Dementia, Cats, Dogs and Cancers that are all worth a penny or two asking for money.  Some I would give to, others I will not; my choice and my prerogative to refuse.

Also it is my choice to give one sum when and if I wish without being asked again.

The days of the rattling collection box seem to be numbered, although there are many retail outlets that have marked collection boxes on their counters to collect coins.  These are limited to a fairly narrow range of charities which means that if I wish to give I have to make on-line or postal contact.

If I send a cheque as a donation once, I expect that to be the end of it but what happens?

You guessed it, a mail drop, continuous bombardments of raffle tickets, rubbish gifts and cards fit only for the bin, literature including exhortations to fill in a form to send a regular amount.  At first you think that the "letter" is a one off until you receive more at intervals throughout the year at a cost to the charity that more than likely has eaten into the cheque sent.

The pattern is similar in most of them. The literature and the promotion complete with identified named labels "for your convenience" to save you writing your information on the butts of the raffle tickets you are expected to buy. I note that the number of books is now three with ten tickets each adding up to a sum of £30.00 in total - I reserve that amount for my weekly groceries.

I received telephone calls, and I emphasise calls, from the RSPB asking me to increase my small monthly amount each month, and spent some time on the telephone during the first call explaining that as I also have a monthly amount with another charity I would not increase the amount. All to no avail. I received another similar call from two more charities asking the same with similar persistence;  same pattern, same steady grind to squeeze more money.

The result was that I assumed the charities were now taking on business style hard sell and so I cancelled my subscriptions. Now I get literature from some which I open but usually, once I have salvaged the free pens, throw in the re-cycling bin.

I want to give to charities of my choice but I am getting fed up with the amount of money wasted on sending out oodles of envelopes to try and persuade me to give.

I will give when I want to and how I want to. I do not want to be bombarded with postal rubbish.

I would like to know what others think.

A Story of a City Down Under - And Darkly Glows the City

And Darkly Glows the City

This tale is one that was in my mind for a long time, and eventually after a number of attempts to find a format that would not only tell the tale but be readable, balancing out the dark side with a sense of hope and humour, I eventually managed a satisfying story.

If that last sounds a little pretentious then please bear with me. In the 1980's in Auckland there was a largish number of Street Kids living rough in the city. They were considered to be a nuisance to shoppers, tourists and shop keepers who called for a solution to the problem. The general opinion was to just get them off the streets, perhaps lock them up or return them to their homes. Some Councillors, Police Officers, Child Protection Groups and the Auckland Trade Unions set up refuges for them with a view to solving the problem by helping the youngsters more or less on their terms. The authorities were horrified and deeply concerned when there were rumours that some children were disappearing off the streets unaccounted for; the suggestion was that some were abducted into the child slave trade.  Whether it was true or not investigations discovered some nasty men preying on the more vulnerable rough sleepers.

I wanted to write about this dreadful "trade" and so turned it into a thriller using the Street Kid story as a background.  I always like the idea of humour even when telling a tale that is redolent with horrific scenes, and so when my investigating officers Detective Inspector Conrad O'Grady meets his new working partner Detective Constable Roy Rogers it is inevitable that there will some corny jokes. Rogers is of course named "Tex" and as the case develops so too does their friendship which gave me a chance to offset the horror of their antagonists story with some normal, romantic and family interactions.

Set in the city of Auckland the action takes O'Grady and Rogers South to Manukau city, and North to the township of Wellsford and the sandy east coast near Mangawhai Heads, and Te Aria Point which were all fascinating places to me.

Darkly Glows the City

When Detective Inspector Conrad O’Grady is called in to investigate a gruesome murder in one of Auckland’s richest suburbs he is not aware of the corruption and horror his investigation will uncover.  Assisted by rookie detective, Roy ‘Tex’ Rogers, O’Grady steadily discovers the answers to the riddle in his own rough and ready way.  

His progress is followed closely by the evil Fat Man who is determined to stop him finding out what is going on in the exclusive Downtown Athena Club.  

Facing opposition from his superiors, and having to come to terms with the dreadful series of killing linked by the book Macabre Verses and a threat to his life O’Grady finds himself in a race against time to save those he loves from a terrible death.  

O’Grady’s story is not just the tale of a detective doing his job, but a story of compassion, strong emotions, powerful love stories and that of ordinary people caught up in unbelievable horror that could shatter their lives. 

It is also the story of two remarkable young people who reconcile their cultural differences. 

The tale has a theme of Satanic Possession which challenges Fr Brien's faith in the power of the Church and threatens to wreck O'Grady's career. The forces against the pair and Rogers are overwhelming and I have to admit that balancing out that part of the tale with story of Sam, the Street Kid involved was tricky. I hope I have managed it.

This is not a tale for the squeamish but those who have read it have said they could not put it down wanting to know what was happening next. I tried to capture that sense of urgency and hopefully create and entertaining story.

In this short piece I hope that I have given an insight into the way I have developed the story and that people will want to read it. I enjoyed writing it. And finally, below, let the back cover sum up the story.

A Book of Poems - The Kowhai and Me

The Kowhai and Me 

This is a collection of my poems some from New Zealand, hence the title and others written in the UK.  To explain; the Kowhai tree blooms in Spring producing yellow, hanging bell-like flowers the native Tui bird loves.  It is the signal that Winter is past and, if the air is not already heady with new, fresh scents, it will add its own to the warming atmosphere and balmy airs.  Many in New Zealand take the tree for granted but as many quietly appreciate it, and in Auckland look forward to the magnificent Pohutukawa with its deep red Christmas blooms and dark green foliage. The Kowhai is a subtle tree that, to me, along with the felled Kauri and the marching Radiata grown for its building timber, was all part of the symbols of colonial occupation that belied the phrase "New Zealand is like a little England" - it is not so; it is nation built from colonists who in their own way "discovered" the land and made it their own.

The Kiwi is a different person from the British - Auckland is a Polynesian  City, as much as it is a Maori homeland changed by the influx of English with a view to settling, and the Irish whose migration in the 1840's included New Zealand.

The language may be English but more so now it is also Maori, and although I use my own language, English, in these poems there is smattering of Maori words but I am a colonist, living there as a paid guest who grew to love the land and the people who belonged there.

However, here are two poems: the first in memory of an evening spent with a good friend and the other a brief glimpse of the city seen as I walked from the University to catch the bus home.

A lighthouse house

we sit, 

you talking to your deaf mother

I sip your wine

I watch the sun kiss the pines goodnight;

cooking whispers seductively through 

my thoughts and catches the sea breeze;

you place the telephone out of reach

and we put the world to rights;

you feed me steak and baked potatoes

with salad and fresh beans;

I pour wine into glasses

( I could carve the meat if you let me )

we drink to Bean Rock;

you read my poems; 

I trace the moon 

through a window and imagine

I am a howling dog

or a wolf in the trees;

sometimes the day is like that

(Dinner with Pat Newcomb in her house on the cliff at Torbay on the North Shore. The house was designed in the pattern of Bean Rock Lighthouse in Auckland’s Waitemata harbour) 

sometimes the day is like that

 Auckland City

Albert Park

Like stone washed jeans, grey boughs

sway, windswept palms guarding,

a tranquil retreat from raucous

grinding traffic.

Jealous of lovers’ trysts

And quiet contemplation

this is my city - bathed in sunlight:

washed in winter rain -

in the streets

from chrome plated stalls

and plate glass windows, hawking wares

paid for by traveller’s cheque

a hundred fountains

in gardens of a million flowers,

and the chatter of a hundred tongues.

A Christmas Story

Christmas Carols. 

Sam the Scam looked at the crowd around Tiny Tim and Orphan Annie and was well pleased. He could see the punters putting their spare change in the hat behind which Little Oliver was sitting playing his flute. Tiny Tim’s crutch was just the right sort, modern yet it looked like its Victorian counterpart.  All three looked mildly malnourished.  

The kids were doing all right singing and playing Christmas songs, all the old favourites and especially when Tiny Tim sang Once in Royal David’s City; it was a real treat to hear his sweet voice burbling out the words with Orphan Annie backing him softly and Oliver playing the melody so tunefully. Even better was when the coins kept slapping into the hat. 

Sam looked across the mall and caught Maisie’s casual glance.  

All clear. 

Orphan Annie gave them a rendering of Silent Night and the trio finished with a good rousing Hark the Herald Angels Sing and just in time because Maisie signalled to roll it up. Sam walked past the little group and swiftly the youngsters packed away and moved on. Sam was proud of them when they stayed in character until they were outside where he and Maisie caught up. Sam took the money and shook it into his copious shoulder bag, and the little troupe hurried away. 

Sam figured they were at least one step away from being nicked, but it was working.

‘Right, we move on folks,’ Sam said, and guided his little flock to a spot where he and Maisie could keep a look out and the escape route led them to the car. 

The Christmas shoppers were generous this year so it seemed but the authorities were not so keen and to help out Maisie had cobbled up a pretty poster declaring that they were collecting for charity which explained the costumes and names. The punters seemed to like that.  

‘And what charity are you subscribing to Sonny?’ Asked a gentleman dressed in an expensive looking overcoat, and a smart hat carrying who was prepared to give a note. 

‘It’s for a children’s Christmas party sir,’ said Oliver. 

The man beamed at him and put the note in the hat and patted him on the head.

‘Good boy, good boy,’ the Gentleman said.

‘Thank you sir,’ said Oliver giving the gentleman a smile. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you sir.’

‘He’s learning,’ muttered Sam. Oliver hated being patted on the head and detested being called Sonny. Sam chuckled as Oliver picked up the flute and managed a surreptitious two fingered gesture as he began to play.  

Maisie gave the warning partway through God Save Ye Merry Gentlemen and with a quick pip on his instrument Oliver stopped playing and they all packed up and moved off. 

‘To the car and off,’ Maisie said. ‘We been bleedin’ rumbled.’ 

What happened next will stick in Sam’s mind for the rest of his ‘bleedin’ natural’. He operated the lock with the remote, they piled in and he started the engine turned the wheel to move off and scraped to a clunking stop. Sam got out and looked at the rear offside wheel. 

‘Bloody clamped!’ 

And coppers. 

There was a gang of police officers in uniform. One inviting Maisie to alight and others ordering the kids out. 

‘Bugger,’ said Sam. ‘We been nicked.’ 

Afterwards, when the nightmare was over, Sam the Scam had to agree that the Beak had a point. But to see all his hard earned cash wasted like that was a heartache too much for any man to bear. 

‘Samuel, my good man,’ said Sergeant Burrows grinning broadly as he helped Sam with the hat and the false beard, ‘on behalf of the Salvation Army and my lads and lassies in your friendly local police force, I would like to thank you for your generous donation of time and money to what is a most worthy cause.’ 

But playing Santa for a crowd of noisy kids, being forced to hand over the day’s takings and his own brood and Maisie acting as bloody skivvies, was not his idea of fun. 

Sam knew he was sunk when as they were ushered into the court room who should be on the bench but the gentleman in the expensive overcoat. 

‘Ah mister Cooper, it seems we must meet again. I suggest the punishment fit the crime,’ he announced and that was it.  

‘Do it proper Samuel and you get your motor back,’ said Burrows.

He Ho ho ho’d almost enthusiastically, put up with a procession of small children expecting him to be nice. Most humiliating of all he had to witness his little troupe of singers perform for free.

It was heartbreaking. 

Driving back home after the party the family was silent until Tiny Tim said: ‘I got an idea.’ 

And at last, making up for their recent losses performing in a shopping mall near you Sam the Scam’s small troupe of Salvation Army look-a-likes will sing well known hymns and Christmas Carols for your delectation. 

And naturally, at this joyful season of the year, the proceeds will go to a worthy, and deserving cause. 

After the Ballot Box

Now that the election is over, and the results are in favour once again of a single party when there are many others parties with a voice needing to be heard it is time perhaps to make it possible for those voices to be heard?


Just a few rounded up figures to show what I mean:

Conservatives approximately 11million votes.
Labour approximately 9 million votes.
The rest approximately 10 million votes.

Of those ten million over 3 million went to UKIP.

This last figure shows that there was a lot of people voting for UKIP, which reflects the spurious popularity of the party and its ideas, perhaps as much as it does the protest against the major parties.  The Liberal Democrats were subsumed as part of that protest which could be that the Conservative campaign did a good hatchet job on Clegg, or the coalition was not popular.

The Labour party leader did nothing for the party by using yet another 'spin doctor' who seemed bent on nobbling Labour's relationship with the SNP and also suffered from its Scottish referendum approach.

The losers are the minor parties.

Like them or dislike them, the Ukippers deserved a few seats in the new parliament and some of the other minor parties could have seats if the seats were doled out on a proportional basis.  In effect approximately 30% of the parliamentary seats could have gone to the smaller parties and that includes in this election the Liberal Democrats who polled 7.9% against UKIP's 12.6%.

I lived in New Zealand for many years and witnessed, and was also involved in the action, the first Mixed Member Proportional (MMP) election and although it seemed like a mess it worked.

How does MMP work?

Parliament is divided into two sections.
Half elected Party seats and half elected candidate seats.
Each party has a list - for example: the larger parties will have lists starting with the leader to the last candidate.
Each seat is contested as usual but instead of having just the names of the candidates on the voting slip there is also a list of parties.

The voter will put a mark against their preferred candidate and another against the party of their choice.

Example:  In Sittingbourne and Sheppey a voter could choose Gordon Henderson and either vote for the Conservative party or choose the Green party, or if they were not happy with Gordon but liked the Conservatives then they can choose the Tory party and vote for perhaps the UKIP candidate.

The vote is then counted in favour of the candidate - there can also be a preference  system where the voter chooses a second and third candidate in which the preferences are counted and passed on - and to choose the party the votes are counted and apportioned nationally.

When the candidate list is filled (in the UK that would be 325 seats) then the next people on the party lists will be called on until all seats are filled.

This means that it would be rare for one party to govern with about half the seats and instead, because  the majority party would have to negotiate with other parties no single ideology could take control and thus eliminate unfair situations.

Note that the word coalition is not used - a coalition is no better than the current situation.

Adopting MMP would give the disaffected a chance to have a voice in government, possibly engage those who see little or nothing for them in the current system, and give small, or minority parties a chance to put their points of view in government.

MMP will also have the advantage of showing up the undesirable parties for what they are.  If this means eliminating some from the political scene and adding those whose voice is not heard then perhaps the electorate will respond.

MMP can be cumbersome, but because of this it acts as a check on legislation that would be otherwise hurried through when it needs to be scrutinised and opposed properly and effectively. It also allows parties to work together and be more willing to form all party Select Committees that work across the board as apolitical units.

James Apps. MA Eng. Litt.

Returning to the fold

It has been a while since I have used this site and I note that the last post was on Hastings and a visit that took us by surprise.  So, recently we have been to a village not far from Hastings on the route I used to take when going there with my mates and my brothers on motorcycles.  No, we did not join in the madness of the media frenzy and the punch-ups between Mods and Rockers. I liked the Rolling Stones and The Who equally.   I didn't ride a scooter but I had good friends who did and between us we managed to avoid the chaos.

I think this is a 1926 500cc

All these years later my sister and I went to Seddlescombe about 7 miles from Hastings and wandered around enjoying the place accompanied by Poppy the dog.  We had a good lunch at The Queen's Head public house, saw the resident wandering geese and admired the village for its mixture of ancient and modern houses and pretty gardens.

We discovered the woodlands where we could walk the dog, watched people playing soccer, had chats with people we met and generally enjoyed the day.

Restored Capri Scooter

I am aware that the recent anniversary ( 50 years I think) of the incidents happened this year - ironically it was 100 years ago that WW1 began - and the stroll around the village was a reminder.

On the walk we met  up with and chatted to a resident who owns three Italian Capri scooters, one restored and two he is getting ready to work on.   Parked on its rear stand outside the Queen's Head was a 1920's Norton Single Cylinder motorcycle in good working order.  The owner rides to the pub for a drink on one of his pre-war bikes.

The Mods and Rockers, if not actually meeting up were definitely present, both peacefully following their chosen hobbies.  Nice that.

Are We Not Supposed to See the Sea?

Bandstand - Alexandra Park

We went to Hastings, not like Harold and William in 1066, to have a fight but on a whim to have a wander obeying a  recent urge to "do" the seaside towns.  Having to avoid the M20 crossing at Maidstone we took the long way around to get to Hastings via the M2, Boxley, Wateringbury and the A21.  It was a pleasant drive and we anticipated a walk with the dog Zoid around the seaside town.  We had a bag of cash between us ready to feed the greedy meters and somewhat anticipated breezy ozone, the smell of fish and chips, candy-floss and all the sights of the seaside; we were even prepared for flocks of hungry seagulls.

Well, we got the seagulls and the smell of fish and chips but instead of wandering the seafront and the town we stopped at Alexandra Park on our way in to the seafront.  We found a free parking spot, a bonus, the coins could be spent on coffee instead, and with the dog on the lead we began to explore.

Typical Seaside Houses

Cold for the time of year but mostly sunny with the promise of showers we took to the pathways.  First stop was the toilets and on the way we located the cafe and admired the bandstand, but was most impressive after our call of nature was the walk in the well laid our park with its lakes and well laid out beds, the stream and bridges and having the pleasure of seeing the typical seaside town buildings bordering the park.  The colorful and ornate facades, neat gardens and balconies with the palms and large trees growing give the place an exotic atmosphere that smacks of holidays and days out with the bucket and spade.

Alexandra Park is quite extensive housing two reservoirs, one on the main park area and the other on the southwestern arm with an extension beyond the main reservoir to Old Roar Ghylls, the nature reserve  where ferns and water abound and apart from the occasional reminder from traffic noise that you are in a large town you could imagine yourself in the hills.

Squirrel playing the crowd

Walking was casual and we stopped to watch the birds and animals including cheeky Squirrels cadging for food, seagulls that were content to leave their exits to the last moment.  We noted that the pigeons have it sussed - take food from the fingers and you get more; likewise the Squirrels seemed to pop out of the trees exuding cuteness in the expectation of being given a morsel or two.   Their success rate was extremely high.

There was rain.  We sat at a table outside the cafe eating cheese sticks and macaroons with a cup of coffee each and the dog quietly begging underneath and  for a while it poured.  We had some shelter and a rain coats to put on.   However, we finished coffee, waited for the rain to ease and went back to the car to get a rain cover for Zoid and for sister to put her raincoat on.

Rose Gardens

From there we walked to the rose gardens and the Peace Garden, wandered past the miniature railway noting that it appeared to have a tunnel for the adults to scream in as it passes through.  Beyond that a squirrel popped out out, did its "ain't I cute" act and gained a treat from us.  Wander then around the reservoir, see the swans and in a pond further up see ducklings.  From there the Ghylls begin and this is where the rain made it presence felt having given the woods and banks a freshener there was sunlight and water and sparkling ferns.  The park is integrated into the town and now and then one pops out onto a street and then finds a way back into the woods.

We walked back along the streets to try and get a glimpse of the sea but the park is a little too far back in the town for that so we decided that another trip on another day would be a good idea.  This time we will take the bucket and spade.