Kia ora to all from warm autumnal New Zealand.
It is still shirt-sleeves weather here in the Land of the Long White Cloud but have had the first autumn storm so summer is slipping away.
My personal laptop is a 2015 13" MacBook Pro but this is currently back in the shop for a frustrating intermittent keyboard failure. As a standby temporary replacement for this and our family business PC, I have purchased a NZ$350 Lenovo ThinkPad 13 Chromebook, which appears to be a good basic machine, easy to use and a fun way to learn about ChromeOS.
As the resident IT guy for the family, this means I am now supporting machines running Windows 7, OS X, Ubuntu, JoliCloud, ChromeOS, iOS and Android across three locations and two continents!
I continue to write in between the day job in local government (though soon to be made redundant), various volunteer roles and working around our smallholding. In the last year, I have been slowly editing down a rough ~150k word draft of our emigration story (inner city London to rural NZ), noodling around with a few dystopian short stories and, more recently, trying my hand at writing poetry.
Funnily enough, the last was prompted by my father's death in January when I was struck by just how many euphemisms we have for someone dying. If you fancy a chuckle, you can find it below
On My Dad’s Death
How strange the things we tend to say
When our loved ones pass away.
I’ve lost my Dad; he’s fast asleep,
He’s now residing six feet deep.
Gone away to a better place,
To look upon the good Lord’s face.
Can he not see Him from way down here?
Do we say this stuff to hide our fear?
He’s climbed the stairs to Heaven’s gate,
Is departed, deceased, defunct and late.
He’s paid the debt that we all must,
And well and truly bit the dust.
Are we quite mad to say these things,
When our nearest dearest sprout their wings?
He went the way of all earthly flesh,
Turned to dust, is far from fresh,
Croaked, crossed over, ceased to be,
And now he sleeps eternally.
The English say it’s just not cricket
To say out loud ‘they’ve punched their ticket’
Pegged out, snuffed out, is no more,
He’s loudly knocked on heaven's door.
His number’s numbers up, he’s D.O.A.,
(Just tell the child he’s gone away).
Bite the big one, buy the farm
Are these not words that cause alarm?
One can slip or pass or fade away,
No longer see the light of day,
Hear the call of the Heav’nly host,
Or simply, quietly, give up the ghost.
Pushing up daisies or just passed on,
Are these good ways to say he’s gone?
There’s no guarantee that it’s the case
That he has gone to a better place,
Unless through faith one’s much assured
He’s happy above now with the Lord.
How strange the things we tend to say
When our loved ones pass away.
☺