Embugger

We just lost one of the brightest lights of modern English literature.

I owe a lot to Terry Pratchett - my family, for starters - and I'll admit to shedding a few tears this morning. My world is a poorer place without him in it.

But in all honesty, I think we lost that Terry Pratchett some years ago, when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. His recent output has been - lesser.

So I'm glad, for his sake, that (from all reports) he was able to die very much as he himself wished. And for my sake, that his canon is now complete, and will not be further diluted with more works that are frankly unworthy of the author he once was.

Once upon a time I would have written much, much more here, about how I knew the man and what he meant to me personally. But I'm still more than a little burned out by grief over a much more personal loss, so that fuller obituary - will now be available only via L-space, to those who know how to navigate it. Here and now, I'll just say:

Goodbye, Sir Pterry. And thank you.

The end of the world as I knew it

This post is based on the speech I delivered at a funeral last Friday. Some attendants have requested a written version; this is for them. I'm sorry for redacting the name of the deceased, but it's always been my policy to keep this blog anonymous.

Mumsie would sometimes talk about funerals.

Nothing significant in that. She talked about everything, all the time, with complete disregard for her audience. But sometimes the endless carousel of topics in her head would throw up "funerals", and those of us trapped at the dinner table with her would smile and nod politely and wait for the subject to change. All I remember from those moments, now, is that she liked the idea of a funeral as a celebration of the deceased's life, rather than an orgy of grief.

Well, I'm sorry Mumsie, but I'm grieving.

I remember when she first told me about death. I have no idea, now, whose death she was talking about, beyond that it must have been someone I knew. She explained it as a form of going away that meant we could never see them again - they couldn't visit us, we couldn't visit them or phone or write or anything.

I didn't understand. Why would they do that? She said that sometimes you have no choice, and everyone has to die.

I still didn't understand. Who could force a grownup to do such a thing? And when she said "everyone", obviously she couldn't mean everyone, because that would include her. The idea of a world in which I couldn't see her - was far beyond my comprehension.

As I grew more and more distressed, I begged her - pleaded as only a child can plead - to promise that she, at least, wouldn't die. But she was adamant that she would. When that line of attack failed, I begged her to promise that at least she wouldn't die for a very, very long time. She said she'd try.

She kept the second part of that promise for 40 years, and now she's followed through on the first part.

And that was typical of her. What she said she would do, she did.

We remember the endless home-improvement projects, each of which began with her saying something like "I've been thinking I'd like a jacuzzi". From most people I know, that sort of remark is just casual conversation; but when Mumsie said it, it was a serious threat, a solemn declaration of war on the state of Things As They Were. And the self-improvement projects - the degree that she took ten years to earn, the entry into the workforce at an age when most people are thinking of retirement, the repeated attempts to quit smoking.

But most of all, what I will try to take from her memory is the courage. The courage of a woman who, in her 20s, left behind everything she knew to settle in a new country. In her 70s, and in frail health, she undertook the 30-hour journey to the far side of the world to help us look after her newborn grandson. The unfailing love that never stopped giving, until it had nothing more to give.

I hope your Viking ancestors were watching all that from Valhalla, Mumsie. They would have been proud of you.

Safari

I don't know if you've ever seen a rhino peeing. It's an imposing sight, looking much as if Moses had struck the poor beast amidships with his staff. The stream is as thick as my wrist (estimate made from a respectful distance, you understand) and it goes on for as long as it takes a two-year-old to amble around one side of the beast's enclosure - must have been at least five minutes, I think.

No wonder people treat rhinos with respect. The thing must be made of bladder. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Since it's been two years, now, that Atilla has been learning how to direct our lives, we determined that he should have a birthday treat in the shape of a visit to the zoo.

Negotiations with the in-laws were delicate, when the big day dawned cloudy and drizzling. His aunt and his grandparents actually wanted to transfer the whole celebration to something - indoorsy.

I was having none of this. The forecast said there'd be maybe the occasional light shower, but nothing sustained - and if you can't stand a spot of rain here and there, I maintained, you've no business to be living in New Zealand in the first place. So I insisted we drive to the zoo, and text them when we got there that the weather was fine and if they didn't get their arses out here right now, they'd miss the whole thing.

(I was planning to send pretty much that message whatever the weather we found when we arrived. But as it happened, it was true.)

Of course, this resulted in a certain amount of heel-kicking while we waited for the family to catch up. Fortunately, the zoo features a generous entry plaza where one can hang about and buy tat before going in. Here, Atilla demonstrated the futility of the whole exercise by succumbing to instant fascination with a fledgling sparrow, just learning to fly - exactly the kind of wildlife one might find in any garden, street or playground in the country at this time of year.

I couldn't have been prouder. While kids all around were herding their parents mercilessly towards the 'official' animals, Tilly had spotted the real thing. It was more than ten minutes before the persecuted bird vanished from view, and I was able to guide my son's steps onwards.

Tilly likes animals. All animals, pretty much indiscriminately. As a rule of thumb, however, the larger the animal, the more respect it gets. Birds and cats can claim his attention if they come within a few metres; dogs are worth crossing the street for (although he still demands to be held off the ground in their presence, apparently not trusting these bouncy, waggly creatures); and anything donkey-sized or larger demands a full-length pilgrimage to inspect at length.

So it was no surprise when, on entering the premises, I found myself gravitating rapidly towards the 'Plainswalk' experience, which takes one past zebras, giraffes and ostriches.

"Bezra". "Rahsh". "Ostrish". He was delighted with these elegant creatures, until he noticed the chickens that, for some reason, Auckland Zoo houses with them. I'm not sure why chickens can trump larger animals, but he insisted on keeping a large black-and-white cockerel in view until we were past the first enclosure, and on to the rhinos and springboks.

Downstream of the incontinent rhino, we found flamingos. But these beautiful creatures claimed our attention for only minutes. As I was holding Tilly up to view them, he happened to glance ahead.

"El", he breathed, awestruck.

"Elli", he gasped.

"Elfi", he insisted breathlessly.

He'd seen Burma.

Auckland Zoo's sole remaining elephant is actually quite a small specimen - I think, if I stood beside her, I could put my hand on her back without even standing on tiptoes. But I didn't get to test that theory on this trip. And Tilly was captivated.

Here at last was a chance to pin him down in one spot while the family caught up. From that point on, I was happy for the in-laws to take their turn at guiding his experience. We'll gloss over the rest of the visit (apparently the seals were also a big hit, but I wasn't with him at that point). But the day was a success.

"Should we buy a season ticket?" Susan asked as we left. It's a discussion we had last time we went. Season tickets to the zoo are apparently quite the thing, for parents of young children.

"Only if it's transferrable between adults."

Mumsie

It's some months, now, since my mother's visit.

After a lifetime of studiously avoiding the southern hemisphere, it was a big deal for her to come here. Not least because she's even older than me (go figure), to the point where travelling isn't as easy as it could be. On the plus side, she could afford to fly business class, which (as I've learned) makes a huge difference on a long flight. (The difference between $2500 and $5500, for a start.)

So we were absolutely chuffed to see her, take a week off to drive her around some of the more accessible picturesque bits of the island, and put her up in our excellent spare room while she was in town. (I say "excellent". It's on the cool, south side of the house, which is nice in summer; it's next to the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom and the wine cellar, so all necessary conveniences are close at hand. We should have more guests.)

And like everyone who visits, she got introduced to the Wii.

It didn't take her long to fling together her Mii. Now, "mumsie" is permanently added to our roster of playable characters. (Not that anyone else would play her, of course. That would be rude.) And she has an impressive record of Wii Fit achievements, games played and unlocked, to say nothing of her ratings at sports. The Wii misses her.

And she, apparently, misses it. Because she's been and bought her own. I wish I could have seen my father's reaction. He does a good line in 'flabbergasted', he's the only person I know who can register that particular reaction properly.

But she can't work out how to recreate "mumsie" properly. So just for her, these are the images from our Wii. And for my other readers, enjoy it, because this is the first time I've posted a picture of a friend or family member here: