Quakes

His
generational respect for the law, (and mine), even in this manifestation as
an unjustified petty regulation, should be supported rather than undermined,
and a good box round the ears administered to this inconsiderate and self-absorbed
teenager by a crotchety baby boomer might have actually saved society time and
money in the long run.
Mind you, there’s something about flying and the getting to and from points
of arrival and departure that brings out the worst in people. Witness the recent
hold ups and delays experienced by masses of air passengers in the UK and Russia
due to the unexpected interference of wintery weather – in winter
too. I wonder if distributing historical accounts of the real difficulties
faced travelling vast distances in the 18th and 19th centuries to our hysterical
21st century adventurers would give them a sense of perspective?

At least some of you will be aware that my home-town is Christchurch on the
South Island of New Zealand. New Zealand is often referred to as the ‘Shaky
Isles’ as it lies at the end of the geologically active Pacific Rim of
Fire, but Christchurch was probably low on the list of prospective venues for
a major earthquake. Much to everyone’s surprise however, on September
4th of last year a major earthquake did occur, causng much damage, especially
to the structures built before the earthquake building codes came into effect
after the 1930s, but amazingly no direct fatalities resulted.
The media’s focus gradually drifted away from the messy aftermath, so
I was surprised to hear from a recent visitor to Christchurch that minor shocks
were still occurring, (some 4,000 apparently), months after the first devastating
shock, although they seemed to be diminishing in frequency and intensity..
I rang my old Christchurch mate Tony Brittenden the other day to see how he’d
fared after the Boxing Day tremor. (There’s been at least one more since).
In the course of the conversation I mentioned Skype, and while I’ve previously
observed that not everybody is mad keen on it, Tony was more than happy to get
connected – which is good to know, ‘cause he’s not inclined
to respond to e-mails and he disdains mobile phones.
Anyway, it seems that the effects of the latest quakes were barely discernible
in the outer suburb of Lincoln where the Brittendens’ live and Tony was
more concerned with the amount of new building going on in Lincoln than pesky
earthquakes in any case.
He said the major difference between the original earthquake and the recent
shocks was like one’s perception of thunder claps according to their proximity.
The original quake had a rolling, rumbling foreshock before the major jolt hit,
whereas it was the reverse in the recent tremors’ case, with a sudden
unheralded bang, followed by some minor trembling. Either way most disconcerting
I should imagine. It must be nerve-wracking to have the earth continually and
unexpectedly shifting under your feet with no apparent end in sight. I hope
things have quietened down by the time I get over there in February.

Finally I want to discuss the old chestnut of political correctness, but
only as it applies to humour. Regrettably PC has spread its sticky web over
nearly all the fields of human endeavour, but I’ll confine myself to
humour for the moment. My own theory is that PC has guaranteed that we’ll
never see if there is an ounce of wit or irony in Julia Gillard to match her
scripted sarcasm. I suspect there’s quite some intelligence to back
up her steely resolve, but while she remains PM and/or the party remains in
the grip of terrified number crunchers we may never bear witness to her particular
take on humour – that’s unless I’ve missed something, of
course..
To my eternal regret I certainly did miss a golden opportunity to privately
ascertain that very fact just a matter of weeks before Julia assumed the leadership
of the ALP. I’m not sure why I’d been invited in the first place
– perhaps the coincidence of my surname was irresistible – but
at the last moment the dinner was cancelled due to an illness in our host’s
family.
My namesake’s demise has been reportedly accompanied by the odd glimpse
of unexpected humour. Unexpected for me at least, as in the past I’ve
described his demeanour as being that of a prurient nun, especially when he
typically purses his lips, but there are reports of his having quite a vicious
turn of phrase when he’s cornered, or perhaps more likely when his victim
is cornered. Which may not sound humorous to you or me, but character assassination
routinely passes for humour in political circles.
Robbo’s been up at Woodford playing with Lil’ Fi and he had an
encounter with Kevin, who was speaking there. (It is Queensland).
Fi’s guitarist, Rory McKibbin, is a Political Science student and so
was interested in seeing Kevin speak and invited Robbo along. Robbo sensing
a photo opportunity, needed no second invitation.
I’ll let Robbo continue: I noticed a pair of slacks and shiny black
footwear under the tent near the Green Room. I said to Rory “I bet you
that’s Kev.” And so it was. Camera ready we approached him. “Hi,
I’m Peter Robertson” I said. “Hi, I’m Kevin” he replied. I
then asked if I could get a photo with him. “Sure,” said Kev. As
we were standing together for the shot I mentioned that I play in a band called
Spectrum with a guy from New Zealand called Mike Rudd. Kev quickly replied
in a comedic dry tone, “Oh, is he a bastard?”