The Britbok Chronicles

Memories

2011-06-28T04:47:00.000-07:00

Despite having crossed the galaxy to a new planet, there happily still remain beings from the Southernmost Colony that have remained stuck in my heart and that will stay there until I am but a speck of dust in a distant place.

As a child how could I ever have imagined that when I joined hands with another trembling six year old to lead a procession of 'Silent Night' singing school children down a long passage and into the school hall for the carol service, that I was embarking on a friendship that would survive for the rest of my life? And yet now that we are both slightly saggier and hopefully a lot wiser, we can pick up our friendship as if we are still two little blondes with scraped knees performing concerts for her long suffering mother in the back garden. And with the delights of cross galaxy travel, and was it easier to afford space craft fees and the new Interplanetary Access Visa for those from the Southernmost Colony, we would surely spend a lot more time together visiting castles and sipping tea.

And then something else from the mists of my past that warms the cockles of my heart, is when one of the little undeveloped beings that was in my care when I was a lowly pedagogue, contacts me via the Visage Book and tells me that he was not traumatised by songs about dirty socks and flatulent duchesses and that I did not leave him irreparably scarred when I dressed him up as an Indian brave or cannibal or pirate or even crawling crustacean, as I sometimes feared. And to my delight, a number of these undeveloped beings, now fully developed with spouses and undeveloped beings of their own, have contacted me, and though in my head they are still only 6 or 7 years old, it is a special treasure to know that I am remembered fondly...although there are surely some out there, you know who you are, that do not remember me fondly at all.

So many memories to comfort and entertain me on this planet I now call home....although I must confess to still having moments when I feel particularly alien, like when someone remarks on my accent, although in the dentist's chair or doctor's office it is a great conversation starter. Perhaps the accent has softened with time as have I, but the memories remain sharp and clear in my mind and I eagerly await more contact from the Southernmost Colony and life 'back in the day'.

Cycles of the Sun

2011-05-16T02:34:00.000-07:00

Somehow the year 2011 has sped by without any reference to my life on the New Planet. I can't explain this except to admit to having fallen once more into the clutches of the assorted bugs and nasties that still take such pleasure in attacking my alien body. Oh how I long for the day when they will retreat and leave me alone.

But today I find myself reflecting on the passing of eleven cycles of the sun since arriving here, it feels like an eternity and yet like only yesterday, and somehow I am filled with a sense of melancholy once more at everything and everyone I left behind.

Of course, it's not that I regret leaving everything in the Southernmost Colony, it's simply that I miss the faces and skin of those I love. My remaining parent has shuffled off his mortal coil and waits for me in fields of Glory, the little boy I left is now grown into a strapping young man with a mind and humour all of his own, while the little girl with skinned knees is now tall and beautiful with legs to the armpits and a line of boys waiting to wine and dine her. Life in the Southernmost Colony has moved on without me and I can't help but wish that I'd been there to see it all change and that it had taken me with it. For somehow, despite the wonders of cyberspace and the constant ability to connect with my loved ones every minute of the day and night, there will always be changes I've not seen 'in progress' and that I will regret missing forever.

But the things that I remember of life there are still set in my mind and even though I know the political landscape has shifted, that day to day life is perhaps not quite as difficult and violence-filled as it was eleven years ago, I can't shake off the feeling of relief at being on a planet where I can walk down leafy lanes and drive at night without fear of attack. I'm sure there are those that still live there that will disagree with me and my thoughts of life in the Colony, but one thing I have discovered is that it is only in being away from it, far from the burglar bars and security gates and walls with machine gun mounts (!) and signs at the traffic lights (not robots because those are things that go beedy beep) warning me that I am in a hijacking hotspot, and the affirmative action that took two wonderful jobs from me, and toyi toyi-ing in the streets, and taxi drivers who use their vehicles as weapons of mass destruction, that it truly sinks in what it is to live in constant trepidation and how wonderful it is to live without it.

And yet, life here, on this planet, no longer so new after all, has been good for me, although there are days I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. I know though, that I have grown in ways I would never have done back in the Colony (and no, I don't mean the additional lumps and bumps attached to my hips and thighs and stomach),I mean the essence of myself, those hidden parts inside that have been stretched and challenged and forced to adapt to a new way of life and being. I have had to dig deep to places I never suspected I owned, to mine the recesses of my soul and summon up the strength that was hidden there and without which I fear I may have leaped off the nearest suspension bridge.

The dark days of the start are behind me now, but memories of them stay with me and resurface each year at the 15th May draws near. It seems odd to count down the years passing as I do, but somehow in doing that I ground myself once more and realise again how much strength I have gained while living here and how changed I am. It's hard to separate the golden memories of childhood from the not so rosy experiences of adulthood, and of course I will always think of the Southernmost Colony with fondness but I am finally now thinking of the New Planet as Home, and can no longer conceive of returning to the Colony to live, for how can one go back when so much within has changed? It is true that you can never go back...do holidays count as going back? Whatever life holds for me on the Home Planet now, it would not have been possible without a good start in the Southernmost Colony, where a little piece of my heart will always remain.

Garlic and commandos part deux

2010-10-20T03:55:00.001-07:00

So at the the risk of my explorations of the garlic and baguette planet fading rapidly from my memory, I now continue my epistle.

Thuir, the tiny village we stayed in, is home to Cusenier, who make Cinzano, Dubonnet and other alcoholic beverages, so it seemed fitting to do a tour of the factory to see the world's largest oak vat, and my word, it was worth seeing, as was the warehouse filled with bags of sugar that are dumped into said oak vat, which holds 1000 200 litres. Now, I'm not much of a drinker myself, so the smell alone was enough to have me weaving about like a drunken sailor...or maybe it was the vertigo...but whatever, I'd imagine that falling into one of these enormous vats would be a very happy way to go, if you like that kind of thing. And I did taste everything, so perhaps it was the ten little glasses chucked down my throat in rapid succession...

There is an abundance of vineyards and baguettes on this planet, and mingled with the doughy smell of freshly baked bread and fermenting grapes, a lovely scent of chocolates and pastry wafted down the little cobbled streets, like a gourmet Pied Piper, calling to me to follow. While I can resist the urge to drink my body weight in wine, I am usually far less able to resist the rows and rows of truffles, pecan pies and e-normous eclairs that are displayed artistically in the windows of the local chocolatiers and patisseries. Fortunately for my waistline, my bank account imposed severe limitations on the number of truffles I could purchase and scoff. But the garlic planet is stuffed to the gills with gorgeous food and shopping Auchan, the huge supermarket in nearby Perpignan, had me in raptures of delight.

Only the French can do food like this. A cavernous shop, the size of an aeroplane hanger and filled to overflowing with the most divine, succulent, pungent, delectable (you get the picture) jars and bottles of pates and pastes, fromages and fruit, mussels, crayfish,oysters freshly plucked from the rocks, crabs still smelling of sea water, a veritable crustacean cornucopia of delight. I'm salivating at the memory. And not just ordinary old cheddar cheese either, you understand. No, fancy creamy, smelly, stinky, old-sock-flavoured cheeses that were begging to be purchased and polluted the fridge for days to come. Wonderful! I think there's something about eating these cheeses with a piece of baguette ripped off a fresh loaf, on the side of the road in a picnic spot in the Pyrenees, that makes it all the more special and delicious. And I haven't even mentioned the local market yet.I'll let the picture do the talking shall I?
Food featured prominently in the trip, for me anyway, because it is all so wonderfully presented and what we on the New Planet consider exotic, to the baguette eaters is simply every day fare, and I say this with a Gallic shrug of my shoulders. Even pottering around ancient Carcasonne with its fairytale towers , crenelated battlements and the obligatory winding, cobbled streets, it was impossible to escape the chocolaty, fudgey, coffee-scented smells wafting towards me like an exotic dancer weaving her magic spell around her awe-struck audience. A trip to La belle France, would not be complete without a sugar covered crepe accompanied by a cup of molten hot chocolate (and nougat), that sticks to the top of your mouth and drips down your throat with a typically French attitude. Yum, and to hell with the diet!

I can honestly say that I fell in love; with the tree-lined streets, the old crumbling monasteries and churches, the villages perched like mountain goats on impossibly steep mountain sides, the people with their shrugging and lip-pursing and wonderfully melodic language, the exotic and foreign foods and the sense of being stuck in the past at every bend in the road. What more can I say? Vive La France. (And very happy to have finally uploaded photos...)

Reminiscing

2010-10-11T04:35:00.000-07:00

Back in the Southernmost Colony, during my undeveloped years, I attended a Pedagogical Institution run along the lines of a fascist penal colony. At a time when hormones raged rampant and passions exploded without warning, we were subjected to the whims and draconian views of a purple-haired pedagogue, who seemed to think that the undeveloped beings in her care were there to be moulded into a being without instinct or creative thought of her own. Pity the poor girl that dared to disagree with anything that she was taught was 'fact'. Christian National Education did not encourage 'free spirits' and neither did my girls-only penal institution.

Dressed in apple green, we were warned of the dangers of 'under-wired brassieres',which, our purple-haired pedagogue was convinced, would lead the 'young Sir Galahad's across the railway line' into temptation. I often wondered exactly how these young Sir Galahads would know we were wearing such undergarments without removing our outer garments first, surely the very thing she was worried about in the first place. We were forced to wear 'sensible' knickers - navy or apple green and nothing else at all would do, and I seem to recall pantie checks to ensure we were in fact stuffed into these thick nylon instruments of torture. Wearing trousers was considered a sure sign that you 'batted for the other side' and that they at the very least 'encouraged' such inclinations.Huh? We were prohibited from draping ourselves over anything dressed in khaki (those famous sir Galahads-our brother school- across the railway line) and were banned from taking part in athletics as this was considered 'unladylike', never mind that we could run around the hockey field in short skirts whacking one another on the shins with a stick and somehow, that was not considered unladylike! And though were could not wear under-wired brassieres, we could however wander around in skin tight, wet Speedos in full view of the public and Sir Galahads and somehow that did not lead them into temptation.

Now, this may sound like fun to you, but I found it oppressive and they were the most miserable five years of my life and the day I left I swore blind that I would never return, that my shadow would never again darken the hallowed halls, never mind the 'middle stairs' of the Institution. And then the invites to the reunions began arriving. WHY? I ask myself. Why would I want to go back there?

Of course there's always the lure of reuniting with old friends and perhaps an even older pedagogue who has not yet shuffled off her mortal coil, but even these are hardly persuasive. But, after a decade, on the insistence of my mater, I did indeed attend one of these events in the hope that I could exorcise the ghosts and heal the wounds that had been inflicted. And yes, I met up with some old friends, which was lovely, but what I also found was that, no matter how successful, happy and fulfilled we were now, we instinctively slipped back into the roles that had been created for us while being held prisoner there.

The bossy prefect types, STILL seemed to think they're prefects and that we should obey them without question, the teachers STILL spoke to us as if we were either a)the brilliant scientist/hockey player and therefore perfect scholar/person who could do no wrong, or b) the nerdy, swot who won the Maths Olympiad but had no social life to speak of (who then went on to crash out of University because of all the pressure), or c) the 'non-girl', who did subjects that weren't considered academic enough or who didn't play in the 'first team' and was therefore 'not good enough'. Included in this group were those who didn't join in with anything for the entire five years of servitude, kept their heads down and got out of there relatively unscathed, and d) the late bloomers; the artists and writers and designers, who at the time were labelled rebellious and underachieving, but came into their own once the shackles had been removed and have flourished outside the confines of the penal colony. And yet these girls were STILL treated like they weren't quite up to par and I know that no amount of protesting or evidence to the contrary, would ever convince those bossy prefects or disapproving over-achievers or bitter pedagogues that life has moved on and that we are no longer those same 18 year old girls who trembled in awe at the horned purple-haired dictator. Who needs this, I ask myself?

And so when the next invites arrived, apart from the fact that I've migrated across the galaxies and settled on the New Planet, I really have no desire to revisit those awful years. Why do people insist on trying to get us all together every decade or so? What purpose does it really serve except to bring up old memories? Maybe there are some that still have good memories, perhaps those years were the glory years for them and hence they feel the need to relive them over and over. I have very few good memories of the penal colony and finally I'm not too ashamed to say it out loud. So many years have now passed, so much water has flowed under the bridge, why should five miserable years be held up as so iconic, as the best years of our lives? It would be very sad if those years were the best we could do.

Thanks to the interweb, I am still in touch with those I WANT to be in touch with,and have sought them out on that website, you know the one, but sorry, there are some that I don't miss, don't care about and don't really want to see again. And why do the girls that I know hated me at school, that whispered nastily about me behind my back, NOW suddenly want to 'be my friend'. They should put an 'I don't Care' button on that website!

Garlic and baguettes

2010-09-29T02:50:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about the new Planet, I have discovered, is now that I am in possession of a lovely maroon Interplanetary Wayfarer Permit, I am allowed to cross the small stretch of water between this planet and those on the other side of 'Le Channel', with nary a sniffy look or very-costly-long-waited-for-ridiculously-expensive visa in sight.

Imagine my delight at sailing through the Portation Gateway on the other side with only a polite 'Bonjour' at the border control man who barely even glanced at me or my Permit. I could have been a traveller with murderous intent, for all he knew, but the maroon document gave me instant access...or perhaps I simply don't look like an international terrorist bent on carnage and mayhem. I allowed myself a small smile (smirk?) at the holder of a blue Permit (I'm not sure what planet this poor soul arrived from)and the barrage of questions, not to mention the queue, that greeted him. And no sooner had I arrived in the great Baggage Claim Hall than my black and grey striped suitcase came trundling out of the black hole that had earlier consumed it on the other planet, and I was on my way into a glorious land of garlic and baguettes.

And what a beautiful place it is to be sure. From the tiny medieval villages perched on hilltops, the ancient, crumbling monasteries and churches, to the the tree lined roads and fluffy sheep grazing on mountain sides (obviously the legs on their left side are shorter than on the right otherwise they would roll down the mountain and land up in a mouton stew), to the vast expanses of golden sands and Blackpoolish tourist areas. It amazed me how no matter what planet you are on, a seaside town remains a seaside town, and apart from the language and the currency, they are all the same...rows of postcards, tacky hats, plastic 'crocs', hand-crafted shell ornaments (!) and plastic-tasting hamburgers. Why? Why, I ask myself, does this happen? Is there some vast warehouse in a distant galaxy that dispenses grotty stuff to be flogged on the seafront of every planet with a coastline?

And just as I was about to despair at the sight of tattooed, beer-swilling, socks-with-sandals-wearing tourists from the New Planet (so instantly recognisable it makes the stomach churn), I discovered a small fishing village uncorrupted by 'les Anglais', where the coffee was thick and pungent, where the food had been caught merely hours earlier, and where not a soul spoke the language of the New Planet. Here I was forced to speak in la langue I was certain I'd forgotten. But, to my delight, the natives on the planet understood me and, if they spoke slowly and didn't switch to Catalan, which sounds like Greek to me, they understood me too and I was able to navigate my way around the village and the menu with very few nasty surprises. Okay, maybe I did end up eating horse or cat, but if I did, I didn't know it. The sheer joy of discovering I had not lost 'it', cannot be adequately expressed, but has certainly resulted in a surge of desire to speak la langue a whole lot better.

Imagine the joy of my companion and I when we found ourself in Collioure, the charming coastal town where the planet's commandos train. Not only did we get to see the magnificent fort where they are stationed, but we also got to watch handsome men in skin-tight wet suits with very large guns slung across their chests, practising their canoeing and swimming skills. What more could two girls on their holiday ask for? And once we had wrenched our eyes away from their well honed and taut bodies, I discovered that this was where the first ever commando unit was trained during WW2 and where the term 'shock and awe' originated. Wandering through the cobbled streets with its coloured houses and wooden shutters in pastel shades I found myself transported and enthralled. All those people that live and work there and I didn't know a single one and will most likely never see any of them again, although I'd quite like to meet up with one of the commandos on a dark night....

My friend and I stayed in a medieval town with tiny winding streets where we got lost every night while trying to get home, going round and round trying to find the actual street that led to our gite, hysterical with fatigue and fury at constantly finding ourselves going the wrong way up a one way alley that is only wide enough for a horse and cart. Fortunately the natives were friendly and shook their heads and waggled their fingers at us, saying 'non, non,' before ushering us backwards towards the right street, except in the middle of the night when we simply went round and round before giving up in frustration and going the wrong way up a one way road because we needed to get to bed...and the loo. And by day seven of our ten day holiday, we finally cracked the code and figured out the route.

I did not however, get used to the clock in the 16th century church two metres away from us tolling every 15 minutes, all day and through the night. Four dongs before the hour, then the dongs to signal the hour. And then, just as I was falling asleep dong, one dong on the quarter hour, which woke me in a fright with my whole body quivering in dread. And back to sleep only for dong, dong on the half hour. Once again the body jerked awake, but drifted off until dong, dong, dong, on the forty five minute mark, followed by four dongs just before the hour and then 10, 11, 12, 1, 2, 3,dongs...you get the picture. I won't even mention the dustbin men who trundled the bins down the streets at 4am, every morning. Have you ever heard a wheelie bin being dragged down a cobbled street in the middle of the night? The first night I was certain it was the Anschluss.

By the fifth night or so I could pretty much cope with the donging and no longer woke in fright, until one early morning, a siren began wailing at about 3pm. I woke in panic, dived under the bed, convinced we were being attacked, that it was an air raid, that the Germans were coming, but then it stopped and I took a breath only for the wailing, like a cat inside a washing machine, to suddenly start up again five minutes later, by which stage I was wide awake and convinced the Gestapo was about to arrive and carry me off to be tortured. The next day while at the boulangerie purchasing the daily delicious baguette (WHY can they not make decent baguettes on the New Planet?) the air was rent once more by the siren, which everyone else ignored, and I wondered if I was losing my mind and hearing things. So I asked the boulanger, to be told it was only the 'pompiers'. Obviously a local volunteer fire brigade being summoned to duty. What a relief....until it went of at 4am once more!

There's so much more to tell, I think I will curtail this epistle and leave the rest for another time...

Chivalrous or chauvinist?

2010-08-02T02:19:00.000-07:00

Many moons ago, when I embarked on an expeditionary trip to the New Planet, I encountered something I'd not seen much of on the Southernmost Colony. I'm not talking about the mountains of steps leading out of the underground, although there are none of those on the Southernmost Colony, but the men that helped me lug my over-packed suitcase with wonky wheels up said steps, without so much as a, "Jeez, you wouldn't look very good in a bikini,' look on their faces.

Now to explain. I was friends with a beautiful woman back on the Southernmost Colony. The man-walks-into-a-lamp-post kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful where every other woman within a five mile radius of her becomes invisible, because her beauty is not only skin deep but extends into her soul. And I was quite accustomed to being invisible. 'Ag shame!' I hear you cry, but no, that's not the point. The point is we all feel invisible from time to time, and we all know what it's like to be ignored by strangers who are so busy gawping at your friend that you don't even factor into the conversation.

And then I came to reconnoitre the New Planet, without my beloved friend. It must be something to do with the type of man I encountered here that made the difference. For there seemed to be a chivalrous streak within them that I personally found sadly lacking in the males on my home planet, who were more concerned about the size of my bra than the size of my intellect....or that's how it seemed to me. I can honestly say that not one man there (who wasn't a friend) ever offered to help me out in a jam. My beautiful friend, on the other hand, had men falling over their own feet to help her out. Attention that I don't think was always welcome. But when I and my suitcase fell out of the tube at Paddington Station, more than one gentleman helped me up and assisted me in carrying the offending case up the stairs. It happened more than once, actually and so the memory of this chivalry stayed with me for a long time.

Then I came to reside on the New Planet, and imagine my dismay when I discovered that men who behaved in a chivalrous manner were now accused of being chauvinists for daring to open a door or pull out a chair or allow a woman to enter a room first. Well, I confess, that having a man behave in this way does NOT make me feel like a second-rate citizen. Yes, I am perfectly capable of opening a door myself, but I rather like it when a gentleman does so for me. I can hear the feminists out there shrieking in dismay. Tough. I like it.

And more annoying than the feminists who object to mere men daring to assist them or behave politely, is the fact that I have observed it is mainly the old men, those older than sixty, who still think it is their duty to behave like a knight in shining armour, whereas the younger men seem to have descended the evolutionary ladder and become pushing, grunting beasts with no care about the 'weaker sex', not that I in any way consider myself weak. A very dear octogenarian friend, was telling me last week how he recently opened a door for a young woman struggling with shopping bags and a toddler,and she turned to him in a fury and remarked, 'I am perfectly capable of opening a door on my own, thank you!' to which he replied, 'And I am perfectly incapable of not opening it for you.'

Another thing I have observed of late, is that now, when I go out with another friend who is approaching eighty (I do have an awful number of very old friends I confess) I have noticed that now it is her who is invisible. When we are in a restaurant or pub or the garage, younger men tend to talk directly to me, avoid looking at her and act as if she's not there. I wonder if she notices? It is something I suddenly realised last week when we took her tyre in to the garage and the 'man' spoke to me, telling me what he would do, how much it would cost etc, and pretty much acted like she was a senile old dear that couldn't possibly understand what he was on about.

No doubt the time will come when I once more become invisible, but for now, I quite like being spoken to as if I'm not an idiot, or treated like I don't exist because I am not endowed with physical beauty or have a creased face and crooked back. I do wish there were more chivalrous men out there, just to balance the inordinate number of chauvinists that lurch about in pubs and shopping centres ignoring those that are precious, just because they do not live up to some unachievable standard of beauty or have skin that doesn't quite fit any more and walk with a stick. Come on, you men! It's time to remount your white steed (or white Skoda) and rescue a few damsels, even if they don't want to be rescued.

Zero to Hero?

2010-07-20T09:59:00.001-07:00

For the main part I find life on the New Planet relatively crime free, especially in the area where I reside among the sheep and nothing more vicious than the odd spider or mosquito intent on draining my last ounce of blood. Now, of course I realise that it's not like this everywhere, and events of the last months have brought this home to me.

Back in the Southernmost Colony, I was quite accustomed to hearing terrifying stories from friends and family who had been hijacked, tied up and robbed at gunpoint in their homes and raped while out jogging, and I confess I barely raised an eyebrow and apart from the appropriate expletive or gasp of horror, carried on in the sure knowledge that one day it would be my turn. Living with such acts of violence day by day, one somehow becomes immune to them. It was only after living on this planet for a while that I realised how bad things were and have many a time heaved a sigh of relief at the safeness of Old Blighty, and the freedom to wander down leafy lanes or through mysterious woods without fear of attack.

And then, in the last few months, this New Planet has been disturbed by two men rampaging with guns in quiet rural settings, leaving death and destroyed lives behind them. The question of why a seemingly normal, 'nice' man would pick up a gun and go on a rampage killing and maiming will no doubt be debated for years to come, and I am sure his family will never fully understand why it happened.

And, almost more horrifyingly, the second gunman, who by all accounts was driven by revenge and anger, and evaded capture for some days before taking his own life, is now being hailed a 'hero' by vast numbers of deluded New Planetarians.

They have set up 'pages' on a certain social interaction site, where they extol him as 'a legend', expressing their delight in his rampage and evasion of the police, like he's some kind of modern folk hero escaping from an evil sheriff. Now excuse me if I find this completely inexplicable and just downright wrong! Since when did killing innocent people out of spite and jealousy become an heroic act? What's the matter with these people? Has television/film violence so eroded their sense of right that they are unable to comprehend the true cost of such behaviour? What of the brave law man that was shot in the face and blinded for life? What of his family and friends and the family and friends of the man murdered for daring to date the gunman's ex-girlfriend? Why is killing and taunting the police a hail worthy act? How did their way of thinking become so warped?

It just does not make sense to me. This was not a desperate man killing for food or stealing in order to survive, it was cold blooded murder and it disturbs me greatly that there are people on my lovely New Planet who think he's a hero. I'm sure those communities will take a very long time to recover and they aren't helped by the nitwits who post admiring comments about the killer.

And don't even get me started on the yobs in the great capital city who think that knifing someone is the best way to settle a grudge...

Flags at half mast...

2010-07-01T09:24:00.001-07:00

So, it's taken me a while to recover my good spirits and rejoin the normal world (well actually I've started watching the tennis instead where some hope remains) and so I won't say much about the ball kickers from the New Planet!

Except...at the risk of repeating everything that's already been written about 'them', I'd just like to add my two cents worth...they were rubbish and not in the good 'it can easily be recycled for the good of mankind' type rubbish. No, just plain old smelly garbage. From the time the first ball was hoofed over the line to the last one that screamed past the head of Mr James and shattered the dreams of an entire planet, those supposedly brave and valiant warriors who were going to lift the trophy and make us all proud, were ru-bb-ish! But I'm not bitter, really I'm not. Despite the you-know-what actually going over the line and being disallowed. Actually, they deserved to have their underpants and other clothing stolen from their hotel rooms, s'not like they can't afford more is it? And you didn't see them being flown home economy class because that would have been plain silly as they can actually afford to buy the whole plane...so spare a thought for the underpants stealers who will now languish in a prison for three years for daring to touch the soiled undergarments of our demi-gods (hah!).

I am however, very happy indeed to say that I am immensely proud of the Southernmost Colony, who have put on a spectacular show for all planets everywhere, with very little reported crime or catastrophe, though that will no doubt be revealed in due course. And even though our ears are still bleeding from the vuvu-what-cha-ma-call-its, and 'the boys the boys' didn't actually get beyond the first round, at least they played with some panache and thrashed those petulant continental pouters and sent them back to their garlic munching planet in disgrace.

And I have even, I confess, felt some slight pangs at not being there amidst the frivolity and eardrum shattering noise and flags flying from every lamp post in sight. According to my dear friend who still lives in the Southernmost Colony and attended a couple of matches, the spirit that abounds everywhere is a wonder to behold and I do wish I could have seen it and joined in...well, maybe it'll be the same on the New Planet in 2012, eh? But kudos to the people and organisers on the Rainbow Colony who have done such a brilliant job, despite the freezing cold and torrential rain at times. I had a good chuckle at the shivering reporters exclaiming in disgust at how cold they were since they 'thought it was always hot here'. I have one word for you lot. Winter.

And now that the red and white flags that were flying proudly have been ripped down or urinated upon by drunken and disappointed fans, I have only one thing to say. We'll try again in four years time, and we'll all get whipped up into a frenzy about our team, who will hold the weight of the entire planet's hopes on their shoulders, and maybe, just maybe, they'll actually score more than a couple of feeble goals.

And one last point to ponder...did no one notice that we actually defeated a certain planet from Down Under in another sporting event? Why was so little mention made of this, the gentleman's game, I ask you? But I'm not gonna even go there, and rant about how I can't even watch this wonderful game on my telly since I don't have SKY. No, I'm not going to mention that at all.

Vuvu...what?

2010-06-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

It might have escaped the notice of some, although they would have to be on an abandoned planet in the depths of nowhere with no electricity or contact with the rest of the universe, (or in the United States of America) that the Southernmost Colony is hosting a massive sporting event from today onwards, an event that will be beamed across the galaxies and into the homes of gazilllions of people, fans of ball kicking or not.

And if one thing is sure, it is that beer swilling will increase exponentially, but in the Southernmost Colony only hops-juice from a certain 'we're not really interested in saa-cker' nation, may be consumed at stadia, in stadia, near stadia or within reach of stadia, much to the disgust and dismay of the makers of said beverage who actually make a better brew than that sponsored by 'you know-who'. And so I won't mention Castle or Lion Lager...or the hundreds of ice-cream sellers, biltong sellers, koeksuster sellers, cool-drink sellers and flag sellers who are, for the duration of the great event, banned from making a living by 'you-know-who', who have a monopoly on all goods and services offered at stadia, in stadia, near....you get the picture.

So the Southernmost Colony has burst forth into a cacophony of sound and colour and national pride, and long may it last, I say. Despite the pretty poor odds of the national team doing anything other than going out in the early stages, to a collective groan and blaring of trumpet thingies, at least they'll all have a stonking good time while it lasts. Not only that, they will forever be the team that scored the first goal at this event, even if all they could manage was a draw...not bad at all Bafana.

I wonder if the waving of multi-hued emblems and flags and the fluttering that abounds along every road, highway, dirt track and pathway will indeed do something to repair the fractures that exist in the Colony, or if it will simply fade away into memory like the glory days of Invictus.

Once the last whistle has blown, the final ball has been kicked and fans from the New Planet have returned in despair or jubilation, depending on how many more players fall over, break a metatarsal or an ankle or tear a ligament, what happens to the Rainbow Colony then? I fear that the rich will be richer and the poor will be exactly where they are today, but in possession of a vuvuzela and for a moment the thrill of possibility...but maybe I'm wrong. I hope so.

Undeveloped beings...

2010-06-05T03:56:00.000-07:00

This week we reached that time on the New Planet when undeveloped beings are released from their shackles for a while, and allowed to run amok...I mean free...in the malls, shops, High streets and parks. Yes, half-term!

Now, it's not that I don't like undeveloped beings, I do, especially those to whom I am related. It's just that there are others who seem to have little or no respect for those of us that are well developed and grumpy and who like their peace and quiet and don't appreciate having chips and beans flung at them while trying to have a gentile cuppa in a coffee shop. And even more annoying, is the parents of said delinquents who sit there with a silly grin thinking that their darling pouring the tomato sauce onto the table and drawing pictures in it with a snotty finger, is awfully cute, innit?

The thing is, there are happily, a number of little darlings who smile politely and respond to my feeble middle-aged jokes without taking offence and trying to impale me on the end of their i-pod, and I don't mind them. In fact, I've even been known to strike up a conversation of sorts with one or two while in the pool, which segues nicely into my next point. Why, I ask myself, do they, the others, have to leap and splash and smack me on the head with their pool noodle (known on the New Planet as a woggle) and get in the way of my 'serious attempts to get fit' while their mother sits in the hot tub oblivious to the watery mayhem ensuing around her? And before you go thinking I'm just horribly unreasonable, I'm not the only flabby one that has finally taken themselves back to the changing room/sauna/steam room in a huff to wait until the undeveloped ones have run out of puff and departed, often wailing loudly because they 'don't wanna go home', leaving our pool in the serene splendour that we (the well developed beings that go every day and not only during the holidays) enjoy and expect.

Of course, having once been a pedagogue, I do understand a bit about undeveloped beings and I know that's what they do, leap about with unbridled passion and enthusiasm for life, and no doubt I did the same, although that time is now shrouded in the mists of time and I can barely remember it...or my own name half the time. It's simply that I object to them being unsupervised and unruly and often downright rude. Or am I just getting old?

Ah, but it's only for a brief period and next week they'll all go back to torture their pedagogues once more, the streets will be quiet, no more will I be in danger of being run over by an out of control skate-board or have the back of my heels irreparably damaged by a supermarket trolley being driven by a Louis Hamilton wannabe. Until the next half-term or looonnnngggg Summer holiday....at which time I shall remain cloistered indoors or take myself off to some exotic place where undeveloped beings are banned.

Sunshine on my shoulder...

2010-05-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

There's special something about a new season on the New Planet. After months and months of whinging and complaining about the cold, the snow, the rain, the foggy roads on a freezing night and the lack of salt to spread on said roads, suddenly it all changes.

The buds begin appearing, the rape bursts into flower and now we get to complain about the hay fever, the heat and the million to one chance that the next Bank Holiday will arrive amidst a late flurry of snow and gale force winds. But then the sun finally shines and we are able to go out into the sun like lizards, to slough off our Winter scales and stock up on that all important Vitamin D.

Now I have observed over time, that when the sun does shine, it sets off some kind of abandoned glee within the breasts of the New Planetarians. Bursting free from the well maintained environments of office blocks and pubs, they find a patch of grass, remove their clothing and lie exposed like pale slices of bacon on a griddle pan. But not those of us from the Southernmost Colony, who already have enough skin damage after childhoods spent in the pool, with no sunscreen on at all because we never knew about such things as skin cancer and melanoma back in the olden days.

As the pasty faced New Planetarians ignore all advice about sunburn and skin cancer, they lie sprawled in parks and village greens, their flesh exposed for all to see and admire (!) and allow themselves to slowly cook, changing from flabby white to puffy pink to lobster blistered red,because 'it's much better to have at least a bit of colour than none at all'. Isn't it?

Sensible dressing also becomes a thing of the past, and at last we get to admire the middle aged men in their colourful long shorts, their vests and most intriguing of all, the socks... with sandals. This is a unique fashion found on this planet, one I have yet to understand, because surely the point of wearing sandals is so that your feet can breathe, so what's the thinking behind wearing them with SOCKS!

Happily, there also seems to be no such thing as what we called 'skaam', as females of the species, no matter what size or shape or colour, feel that a bit of sunshine is just the opportunity to display their arms; sleeveless tops/dresses with bra straps showing, legs; short shorts or mini's that are shorter at the back than the front due to the size of the posterior, and my personal favourite, the stomachs, which cascade over waistbands like the Augrabies Falls, flopping about at will, unrestrained and unashamed. Even the soon-to-be-mums, display their swollen bellies with pride hoping to get a bit of a tan before the big event...or perhaps it's just that they're wearing the wrong size t-shirt?

Would that we all had the confidence to appear in public like this with no care about the sniggering that I know from personal experience goes on behind the hands of sun bed tanned nymphets who wear headbands as skirts and display slender shining legs squeezed into lethally high heels as they totter down the High Street looking down on those of us that keep our batwings and hail damaged thighs well hidden behind flowing skirts and dresses with sleeves.

And we get to exchange comments with strangers like 'it's a gorgeous day, innit?' or 'cor, it's proper sultry like today, eh?'. And we all know that the glorious weather isn't going to last very long, no matter how enthusiastically the weather forecasters predict 'scorching temperatures', and the 'hottest day of the year' and that we will have an Indian Summer, where we will spend our evenings strolling down country lanes picking blackberries or barbecuing (not to be confused with braaing, because somehow pork sausages and beef burgers aren't quite the same as proper wors and sosaties) and anyway, we all know it's going to chuck down rain on the very day we planned our BBQ.

I do miss being able to run out to the pool and plopping into the cool water whenever the heat becomes too oppressive though. Sadly, that can't happen here, mainly because most pools are all indoors and any sort of 'plopping' or 'bombing' or 'splashing' is frowned upon...I mean, what on earth would Health and Safety think about such frivolity?

But the lovely long evenings and the soft pink sunsets are indeed wonderful, and sitting outside on a balmy evening is rather special, even if you do have a bunged up nose, a fit of sneezing every five minutes and scratchy, red-rimmed eyes.

Ah Summer, don't you love it?

Oh what a circus...

2010-05-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

The Big Top has been erected, the clowns are giving their final performances and soon we will all flock like willing sheep to the nearest school or church or town hall to make our little cross. I have never in all my life seen such shenanigans as those that I have witnessed recently as the New Planet begins its search for a new leader and change of governance.

The one thing I am assured of however, is that here, voting will be based on critical analysis by the voters and will not take place along tribal lines as it does in the Southernmost Colony, where, no matter how good, bad or indifferent the ruling tribe actually is, the voters seem incapable of placing their cross next to the name (or picture as most of them are illiterate) of a worthy person for fear of the 'eye in the sky' seeing who they have voted for and violent retribution being meted out. Or maybe not...

Watching the live debates (obviously not the entire thing or I might have gone completely off my head and taken to drink) and the manic walkabouts by the hopeful candidates, it strikes me that beneath the civilised facades, there beats in fact a primal, primitive heart in the well-covered chests of the voters. One has only to witness the pushing and the heckling and jeering and downright nastiness of some to wonder if they actually care about hearing what the poor chap has to say, or if they are more intent on grabbing their fifteen minutes of fame. Anyway, despite the rhetoric and name calling, they all seem inclined to vote for the very same tribe they voted for last time, the same one their parents and grand-parents and great-great grandparents voted for. You get the picture.

Now I suppose no politician is to be trusted, or so I am frequently told, but there is something a little bit unsettling when a man makes a comment in the privacy of his car (or so he thinks) and finds himself reviled, ridiculed, and lambasted from a dizzy height by the sanctimonious and mean spirited who have themselves never made a rude comment or proffered an opinion about someone they have met and who rubbed them up the wrong way. Is the man not entitled to his own views or to get annoyed upon occasion? Is he not human? Why is it that every Tom, Dick and Muhammed now has the right to savage and tear apart the mans' character, and that of his wife/partner/child as if perfection is the norm and not the exception? And don't even get me started on how they've been trotting out the wives with all the razzmatazz of a great spinning firework, while commenting cruelly on their fashion sense or smile or unguarded gesture...I said don't get me started!

So, one of our possible Prime Ministers appeared on telly, where he wooed the public, slew the females of the species with his good looks and dazzling smile and became more popular than Winston, and for an entire day was lauded and congratulated in the national press, spoken of as if he'd just walked on water and fawned upon by all and sundry. And then the very next day, his character was attacked when 'irregular payments' in his personal bank account were brought to the notice of the millions of voters who had fallen for his charming manner and eloquent speech. And it makes me wonder....how the hell did 'they' get hold of his private bank statements? What ever happened to privacy I ask myself?

So with only a week to go, let's hope no one says anything else that will reveal that they are not in fact pod people programmed and operated by a giant head on a distant star in a far off galaxy, but are simply human beings with the same failings, idiosyncrasies and emotions as the rest of us.

The sky is closed

2010-04-22T02:39:00.001-07:00

For the last couple of weeks the skies of the New Planet have been closed to all incoming and outgoing craft due to a plume of ash from an erupting island you'd think was too far away to have any effect on us (apart from the banks of course).

Travellers have thus resorted to ingenious ways of returning to the home planet via trains, buses, hire cars and minivans, small craft, the Royal Navy, an extremely expensive taxi ride by one celebrity and one chap buying an old rusted car to drive across the 'continent'. Just think of the adventures that will be regaled over the Christmas roast for decades to come.

When ferries began refusing foot passengers,some clever sorts (who of course come from the New Planet) toddled off to the nearest supermarket to purchase a bike that they could then cycle triumphantly aboard. I wonder if expressive hand gestures were produced for the benefit of les bureaucrats. Most inventive and once again that good old 'Dunkirk spirit' raised its head with one intrepid historian rounding up an armada of small craft, sailing them across Le Channel, only to be stopped by French police who feared he was was planning on smuggling illegal immigrants back to Blighty. You'd think the maroon passports, the piles of dirty luggage, the tearful, exhausted children, newly acquired tans and television cameras might have been a clue that it was in fact a rescue, but non, he was allowed to rescue but a select few...mainly attractive females with taut little bodies I might add. Sacre bleu!

And now another great tradition raises its head on this small planet. Blame. Whose fault was it that hundreds of thousands of voyagers were stuck abroad on other volcanic islands, in heaving ports and deserted airports? The clamouring voices and finger pointing has begun. 'They' over-reacted, 'they' were irresponsible and ridiculously panic-stricken, cost the country and airlines millions, failed to anticipate for such eventualities and on and on, trying to find a scapegoat.

And yet I wonder what those same judgemental people would be saying had a plane been allowed to fly, become clogged with volcanic ash and crashed causing hundred of deaths. Then who would they blame? God?

This constant need to find someone to punish for an event that could never have been predicted much less controlled once it happened, is very tiresome, to me anyway. And it has certainly highlighted the reliance we now have on air travel. Let's hope then that no more 'natural events' occur that will inconvenience and disrupt our perfectly ordered little lives, but at least if we do get flooded or blown over or if our street erupts or the village green collapses or our town slides into the sea, we can then then spend the next few weeks and months finding someone to blame and hold accountable and 'demand' compensation and maybe that will make us all feel better...until the next time.

But let us not forget what lies ahead for the planet in the next month or so....and the debates and character assassinations have only just begun...

At the end of the week

2010-02-20T04:42:00.000-08:00

One of the delights of living on the New Planet, is participating in the little rituals that take place in every small market town at the end of the week.

In my small town, a market is held every Saturday in one of the car parks and it is there that one can buy such delightful things as roast pork rolls, home made dog food, extra extra extra large flowery cotton knickers, jumpers knitted in just the wrong shade of pink and CD's of yodelling cowboys. One can also purchase nuts, bolts, out of date calenders, soggy pot plants and assorted hand made jewellery (the kind with cheap beads, wonky wire and unmatched colours). Now lest you consider this an event only to be participated in while under the influence of elderflower wine, let me elaborate.

On such occasions, there is much more than the smell of roasting pork and candy floss in little plastic buckets. There is the social interaction that takes place. For no matter how long you've lived here, you are certain to bump into at least ten people you know, or who your friend knows, or who went to school with your nephew's sister's father. And even if you're still a relative newcomer, there are plenty of folks with whom you can have a discussion about the weather.

It is one of the social conventions on the New Planet this. While studying the pleated tartan skirts and neon yellow builder's vests, it is practically compulsory to make such comments as 'Nice day, isn't it?' or 'Weather's pretty rubbish today, isn't it?' or 'Isn't it glorious sunshine?' or even 'How have you coped with all the snow?' And this of course can lead to all manner of further discussions about the quality of the roads, the latest sex scandal or the state of the nation.

And then, just as you move off with a friendly smile and a warm fuzzy feeling, you bump into an actual friend, with whom you can gossip and chat and sometimes, if time allows, pop into the local coffee shop (which incidentally is run by a man from the Southernmost Colony) for a 'cup of chino' (according to one waiter from the previously mentioned colony), or a delicious treacle flavoured latte.

Wandering through the little streets and precincts of the town, past the second hand book sellers, the gypsy penny whistle player and the friendly dogs in woolly coats tied up to the lamp post outside the supermarket, once the chores are completed and the shopping bags are full, one is certain to bump into at least five other people that you know or sort of know. And once again you can vent about the sogginess of the snow, the lethal ice, the budding daffodils...there are endless topics to discuss on a sunny/snowy morning in the market town.

So, to my relief I have discovered that there is never a need to feel lonely on the New Planet if you don't have any real friends yet, you simply take yourself off to market and you are certain to find someone to chat to.

Into the blue

2010-01-30T06:21:00.000-08:00

One of the many delights on the new planet, has been the friends I have made and with whom I have shared many an adventure. The last being a recent trip aboard a large craft that travelled across the great waters to other places unknown and exotic.

The craft itself is due some comment. Large-ish, carrying up to 900 passengers, it was sleek and beautiful, but to my mind, dated in its appearance and more particularly in the entertainment it provided. But then, considering that the average age of my fellow travellers, most octogenarians and many I suspect reaching for their century, I am not surprised. Now, fun though it might be to these grey-haired creaky-limbed travellers, afternoon tea dances and lectures by fading stars of stage and screen could have been deathly and I feared the worst.

To my surprise however, I found that listening to an ex-detective inspector who was one of the original investigating officers of The Great Train Robbery was in fact fascinating. But though I sat through a few of his rambling anecdotes, I did draw the line at watching second-rate dancing girls trying to stay upright as the ship tossed and rolled upon the rough waters. There's nothing graceful about a long-limbed dancer lurching out of control across the stage while trying to prevent her ample breasts from popping out of the top of her costume. Such events are guaranteed to get the giggles going and how could I do this to the poor girl? I could also not bring myself to chuckle at the stale jokes and out-dated comedy styling of the resident comedian...but that is all of little significance in the great scheme.

It sounds as if the adventure was dire, and yes, it could have been, especially as 75% of the travellers, including my friend, succumbed to a nasty bug that the vigorous cleaning and hand washing at every possible opportunity was unable to prevent. I escaped the horrors for some reason and spent time instead standing on the decks gazing out to sea, hoping for a sight of dolphins. No luck. I also encountered some beings from the Southernmost Colony, which helped enliven a few minutes. But truly, a highlight was getting to chat to the ancient and decrepit co-adventurers I chanced upon sitting in the sun or in one of the many lounges scattered about the craft. So easy to slip into a conversation over a cream bun and a nice cuppa, even if I did hope to spend some time in solitude reading my book. I eventually gave up this hope, and surrendered to the long, involved, repetitive and unbelievably fascinating tales of my fellow voyagers.

From the twinkly-eyed missionary to the one-legged Welshman with a hamster called Blondie, I have realised that this is the reason one takes a watercraft and cruises off to worlds unexplored. For it is in listening to their stories of daring-do during First and Second world wars, and the wealth of experience that they are so willing to share (often more than once or twice in the space of ten minutes) that I understood that there is so much more to life than worrying about whether or not my apparel was suitable for dinner. These wonderful well-developed beings, are stuffed to the eyebrows with wisdom and wit and seem completely oblivious to the petty little things that seem to occupy so much of our time. For these men and women have survived two global conflicts in which they lost friends and family members, have seen technology accelerate at frightening speed, and have watched as today's youth repeat the errors they too made in their own early years. Yet they remain calm and focused and have moved beyond the cares of childhood and middle-age-hood into their twilight years.

It was with shame that I consider how often these genuine gems of humanity are shuffled off to cold places where they are forgotten, as if they have always been old. But they are so much more than this, they are more than the wrinkled skin and the rheumy eyes. They are more than a burden to state and family, they retain their wit and intelligence (sometime a bit addled it must be said) and they deserve respect and awe.

To be so at ease in one's skin that appearing in front of 800 other diners in high heels, ankle-high socks, short shorts showing of the saggy legs in all their splendour and a skimpy vest allowing more than a peak at the drooping mammaries, without batting an over mascaraed eye, is surely a wondrous thing to behold. As is an 80 year old fake-tanned body shoe-horned into a sequinned lycra evening dress with no sleeves and plunging neckline and let me not neglect to mention the leopard-skin Speedo worn confidently by the overweight, antique Lothario who strutted about the pool deck leering at the 'younger' damsels -younger than 70 that is. Aah, that is a picture to summon up when in need of some light relief.

I count myself privileged to have met some of the wonderful old men and women on board, and had I not embarked upon the craft and given myself over to its old-fashioned charms, my life would be infinitely the poorer.

And this all before even stepping ashore on moon-like landscapes...

The Natives at Play

2009-12-14T12:01:00.000-08:00

Observing the natives in their natural habitat, is an important part of settling in on a New Planet. Instead of going to the zoological gardens to observe other species, I prefer to sit in a cosy room with a hot beverage, observing some of the strange rituals practised by the natives. It affords me much amusement and I am beginning to take these strange aliens to my heart.

The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.

I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.

And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.

There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).

I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...

Under attack

2009-12-10T02:21:00.000-08:00

It has become apparent to me that the New Planet has a number of unpleasant elements floating about in its atmosphere (and no, I'm not talking about large-mammaried celebrities). Although I have been on this planet for a number of years now, I continue to be attacked and struck down by these dastardly bugs. Surely a being should build up a resistance after a time? They lurk out there, waiting until I am tired and vulnerable, and then they swoop in and attack and leave me feeling as if I have been run over by a herd of woolly mammoths. And since my stomach is now churning after another assault, I shall retire to my chamber to contemplate, scheme and plot about the best way to take over the world.

Couch Potatoes...

2009-12-04T02:18:00.000-08:00

On the New Planet the nights are drawing in, darkness descends in the late afternoon and the air is frosty. And in the gloom, when shopping is manic with present-hunters pushing and shoving and jostling to get the best deal, traffic building up making easy travel nigh impossible, the only retreat for a sane traveller is the couch, in front of the picture box...well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. But I'm not going to ramble on about the endless repeats, no, I have something much more important to mutter about.

To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.

Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.

And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.

Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).

So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.

Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...

Feeding frenzy...

2009-11-30T02:24:00.000-08:00

As mentioned in my last epistle, food on the New Planet plays a big part in every one's lives, so I'll continue on this delectable topic for now...

Once a traveller has mastered that great institution known as 'the pub', and fallen prey to the monstrous carvery with its soggy carrots, undercooked meat and runny gravy, one can explore the other delights that the New Planet has to offer. Seldom will a being leave a Sunday lunch at the pub with enough energy to do anything more than collapse on the couch with trousers (not pants because these are what one wears under clothes) undone and stare at the telly. Last (or first depending on how you look at things) Day of the Week dinner is a big thing on this planet and you can’t get more traditional than roast beef and potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas, sprouts, carrots and gravy, followed by the ubiquitous sticky toffee or banoffee pie pudding. Of course, there are still some brave enough to actually cook this meal 'from scratch' and serve it up from the comfort of their own homes. Even one such as myself, who grew up in the Southernmost Colony, was inducted into this ancestral right back on the old planet as old and new ways merged to create a new species of being, the Britbok. Obviously this was before discovering the delights of charring dead animal flesh on a open fire built inside half an oil drum, an activity that would not be well received by the ''ealf an' safety' dictators (or the 'No, you shall Never Have Any Fun Again or Use Common Sense to Prevent a Ridiculous Accident Police', as I like to call them) that reign supreme here.

Of course there are the usual speedy-cuisine outlets, the golden arches, the genial grey-haired man with his deep-fried, cholesterol raising fowl and assorted places that serve dead animal flesh skewered on a strip of metal, but let us not forget that famous New Planetarian institution, the faithful 'chippy', often creatively named (In Cod we Trust, Almighty Cod, The Frying Machine). Ah yes, white fishy flesh wrapped in a heart attack, I mean batter, and slices of deep-fried root vegetable wrapped in newspaper…actually in a polystyrene non-biodegradable container or soggy packet, smothered in salt and vinegar and loaded with fat. Yum.

There is a very odd tradition here that I have yet to make sense of, the fondness for what they call "mushy peas". This is not as exotic as it sounds. They are really squashed and battered peas with the same texture as green peanut butter and the same coarse, dry stick-to-the-top-of-my-mouth-making-me-feel-like-I’ll-never-be-able-to- talk-again properties as the brown stuff. Usually a large dollop is served up on top of the strips of root vegetable, turning them green and leaving little lime coloured rivulets of liquid for the cod or hake to wallow in. I’m sorry, but I can’t take them seriously.

Fed up...

2009-11-27T02:13:00.000-08:00

For any calorie counting, sugar watching, fat-free-food-obsessed traveller, the New Planet is a land mine waiting to explode and cover the unsuspecting being in creme filled chocolate. Walking down the streets of any small town or village, the nostrils are assaulted with a variety of smells guaranteed to drive any moderately hungry person off their head. Sweet and salty, nutty and nasty, fruity and fantastic, there is something about the mixture of aromas that meander about narrow lanes that cannot quite be described. For someone coming from a Southernmost Colony where thousands teeter on the brink of starvation, there is an almost wanton array and selection of culinary delights on display at this stage of the planet's orbit around the sun.

The vast displays of cocoa-bean delights that appear at Yuletide served up in industrial strength sized boxes, are surely designed by some skinny sadist monster from the depths, as who can resist the shiny wrappings, the bows, the bangles and the spangles that beckon from every shelf as the festive season draws near? Not me, that's for sure. Boxes and bags and bow bedecked nut, nougat and caramel filled treats lurk and call very loudly to any cocoaholic brave enough to enter a shop at this time of year.

How will I survive the tempations; the dairy products so artistically arranged on small wooden pallettes, the skyscraper-sized displays of every kind of alcoholic beverage known to mankind (ten for the price of one as if every being is intent on getting so inebriated they fall head first into the trifle), the arrays of sauces and snacks, frozen mini-cupcakes, sausages rolled in pastry, skewered sea creatures dipped in bee nectar, immense fowls of every form stuffed within one another, and don't even get me started on the expectations of the undeveloped beings who appear to think that their parents' treasure is unending and that whatever their hearts desire will be bought, packed, wrapped, bedecked and be-bowed and placed beneath the yuletide bowers. How can beings resist the multipacks of powders and potions and paints that appear on the shelves of retail outlets at this time of year? Well, I'll tell you, they can't!

And let me not forget to mention the often garish multi-coloured strings of illuminations that twine and twirl and dangle around lamp posts and trees and garden fences, that drip off eaves and strangle mantles. Small, large and gigantic fronds of fir (or plastic) hang heavy with the weight of the glass baubles and bells and strings of silver or gold or green or pink, a veritable overdose of glitter and glow and yes, it does warm the cockles of one's heart (unless one is particularly cynical and annoyed at the disappearance of the TRUE meaning of this season). In the dark damp nights, amidst the twinkles and sparkles and festive cheer, a traveller from the Southernmost Colony longs for the bright sunshine of nature and family and friends, and experiences pangs unlike any that occur during the previous rotations of the moons.

Fortunately, this season does not last too long (although it certainly begins far too early) and once the geegaws and niknaks are packed away once more, life on the New Planet resumes once more, normal and natural...until the first cocoa-clad bunny comes hopping into view...

Nasties and heroes

2009-11-23T15:23:00.000-08:00

I have discovered to my dismay, that even on the New Planet, a place I thought to be safer and securer than the Southernmost Colony, there exist felons intent upon the destruction of my small content sphere. These dark creatures lurk in gloomy rooms, their many tentacled hands tapping furiously upon their keyboards, breath foul and reeking, bodies unwashed and crusted with dirt as they try to separate me from my ever dwindling treasure (or so I imagine).

I find myself filled with rage at these purpetrators of crime and wonder what misfiring synapses inside their small brains enables them to assume they can lay their grubby fingers on that which does not belong to them. Perhaps it is the anonymity of these felonious beings that makes me so irate.The unmitigated gall to think what's mine is theirs simply because they will it so. But, despite finding my limbs weak with fright and anger, I am delighted to discover that within mere hours of these dastardly devils attempting to plunder my wealth, they are being tracked through the cybersphere and will soon, no doubt, find themselves in shackles and, oh if it were only so, in the stocks where others like me could pelt them with rotten fruit and sodden clumps of mud! And I am eternally grateful to the heroes behind the scenes that are seeking out these felons...

Round and round I go...

2009-11-02T09:59:00.000-08:00

And then we have that great invention called the roundabout, which the New Planet seems to have created deliberately to annoy travellers. Now, these are not to be confused with the pimples in the road that they have in the Southernmost Colony and call a traffic circle. They range in size from small circles with four roads converging, to massive, congested, five lane confluences with nine or ten roads converging like spaghetti throwing a tantrum. Woe betide if I don’t know which exit to take. I have ended up going round and round and round trying to find the correct exit, get into the right lane and avoid being squashed between other drivers who do know where they’re going and are not at all sympathetic towards lost foreigners.

The exits are not always that clearly sign posted and I have discovered after many a tearful journey, that it doesn’t help to only know the name of the town I am going to, but I also need to know the names of the nearest big town, and at least five or six villages en route. I also need to know in which direction I am headed. It’s all very well to be on what the New Planetarians call 'motorways', but if you're heading North instead of South, matters become even more confused. When you think you're heading for The Great Capitol City and end up at the Severnth Bridge leading into a nearby planetoid where they speak in sing song accents and eat leeks, a newly arrived traveller can end up feeling a right twit (well I certainly did).

I am only now beginning to make peace with the road systems, but at least I finally know how to find my way home if I get lost. I once found myself trapped in a jungle of winding alleyways and narrow, never previously before discovered lanes bordered by impenetrable hedges for three and a half hours because I just didn’t know which way to turn as nothing was familiar (and it was pouring with rain, which is does from time to time as I might have mentioned previously).

There is definitely something about coming from the Southern Colonies…not only does the water go the wrong way down the plug hole, but for the directionally challenged left feels like right, North feels like South and all directions make absolutely no sense at all. And a local cartograph is not necessarily helpful. You might find the building you're looking for on page 94, but how you actually get to page 94 is another story. Sitting in a layby as you flap through the pages of the cartograph like a demented butterfly, is no fun at all, especially when you decide to turn left at the crossroads and you should have turned right and are now headed in completely the wrong direction, something you only discover when you see the lights of a large metropolis ahead.

Being told in a serious voice to “Go straight down the Motorway, take the Portageway (which is not sign posted or I can’t see the sign because there is a large truck blocking it just at the crucial moment), then go round the roundabout past the post office on the left, then go straight after the sixth set of traffic lights and veer right at the mini roundabout, then go under the bridge and cross over the small lane but don’t take the first left fork, go past that fork and at the next left fork go straight and take the fifth left fork then keep right but bear left as you round the bend, which curves to the right just before you turn left as you pass the tall oak that was stuck by lightning in 1265, and if you carry on straight you can’t miss it. But if you’re leaving before the sixth moon rises above the horizon, I suggest you rather take minor route 416 and in that case go….” does not make it any easier.

And it's not only the road system that needs to be learned, there is also vocabulary, which can lead to confusion not to mention embarrassment. For instance, a robot is a mechanical thing that walks around making beeping noises intent on taking over the world. The thing that goes from red to amber to green, which I find at intersections, is called a traffic light and running over a sleeping policeman is not an incident of manslaughter after all, it’s only a speed bump.

Ah, the joys of traffic. The transportation routes are like overfilled sausages, stuffed to bursting with strange, well maintained craft beetling about. I notice at once that all of them have four wheels with the appropriate amount of tread. They are all on a mission and know exactly where they're going, unlike myself, who is still, despite these many years, devoid of any kind of navigational skill. But at least I can find my way home now, so that's comforting...

Highways and byways

2009-10-31T04:40:00.000-07:00

So what’s it actually like living on this little planet? These are my observations over the past rotations of the moon, and I hope they will if not inspire, at least encourage and give a bit of hope to those battling to find a place they can call home.

Living in one city is pretty much like living in any other city anywhere in the world. On the New Planet though, there’s a whole lot less place to park my craft. Luckily for me, I get to move to a rural area and heartily recommend this to anyone contemplating the move. Okay, I won’t get paid as much as I was in The Great Capital City, but it’s cheaper to live in a small market town or village and there’s something to be said for waking up to the lowing of cattle and the stench….I mean aroma... of animals, instead of hooting taxis and traffic that continues all through the night.

Hordes of travellers from diverse planets, most speaking an unintelligable tongue,rush about the tiny planet and this traffic continues to make me catch my breath. Even after these many rotations of the moon, I still find myself in awe at the chaos that can ensure from something as simple as one traveller applying the brakes to his craft, without warning, causing the river behind him to slow down, then stop, thus creating one immense parking space on one of the byways.

This Planet truly is a green and pleasant land; gorgeous stone cottages and tiny winding lanes bordered by hedges, tulips blooming on every verge, roundabout and roadside in the spring and the long hot evenings in the summer (although there are some Natives who declare that summer has been ghastly this year). Now, quaint though these winding lanes are, they are no fun to drive down in the pitch dark. I almost have a heart attack one afternoon when a many-wheeled vehicle wider than his half of the road, side swipes me and takes my mirror with him.

Most of the New Planet's roads are only wide enough for one craft and if I happen to meet a sluggish farm-making craft, much reversing to find a wider spot occurs. Again, not fun in the dark. Also, if it happens to have rained (which as already established it does fairly regularly) the roads get flooded and I come across a long tailback of craft all trying to turn around and reverse to avoid another craft that is stuck in the water or the mud, of which there is a plentiful supply. This, is not an easy task and unless there is a convenient farm entrance nearby turning is virtually impossible.

So coming unsuspectingly round a bend I encounter a queue of surprisingly calm drivers (unless you’re from the Southernmost Colony in which case you are irate at the delay) I reverse slowly into the nearest convenient farm entrance or dent in a hedge, turn and try to find an alternative route to my destination. You can imagine the joy of driving down these tiny lanes when it has snowed and the road is icy. Many a merry motorist has ended up in a hedge or in a field full of cows, having skidded on a frozen puddle or black ice.

Picture the road to your nearest large metropolis in peak hour in the midst of a taxi blockade…this would be an average day on one of the New Planet's Motorways. Yes, I kid I not, this is a TINY island and EVERYONE has a craft of some kind and drives it (not always as politely as one would suspect) on the motorway. Peak hour is a nightmare and best avoided if at all possible. A traveller can spend 3 hours doing a ten minute journey. AND, wherever I go they are digging up the road. There are road works everywhere. I have never seen so many little orange cones in my life. Someone somewhere is getting very very rich. So, I in my infinite wisdom prefer the simple roads, floods, muds, tractors and all.

A new tribe

2009-10-29T03:17:00.000-07:00

The day finally dawns when I stop referring to the Southernmost Galaxy as home and this is when the real settling in has begun. After a specified period of time I take myself and my nearest and dearest off to an official ritual where I am inducted into a brand new tribe, am asked to swear an oath of allegiance to this new tribe and its ruler and a few days later receive in the post a sparkling new Cross Galaxy Nomad Permit. This puce coloured one will allow me considerably more freedom in moving around the galaxy than my previous one.

I have taken much advantage of this liberty, exploring new planets as often as possible and each time am thrilled to pass through the Portation Gateways with barely a hiccup as I flash the maroon book at sleepy men manning the entry points to these planets. I even smile smugly as those that still hold the Green Mamba Permit wait in endless lines, fidgeting anxiously in case they are refused entry and sent back to the Southernmost Colony in disgrace. And even though this once happened to me (another entire epistle entirely) I still breath a sigh of relief at being able to do so much travelling with so little trauma.

I stop feeling like an alien and begin to call myself an immigrant! It’s certainly an adventure and it takes a very long time before I adjust, some people never do, but that’s why they invented spacecraft.

The sun will come out...

2009-10-27T03:25:00.000-07:00

To my relief (and amazement after a long dark period), one day the clouds lift, I realise the sun does shine and I start to adjust, which is the longest phase. I find myself adapting every day and yet few days go by without my thinking or saying something about how it was “back in the colony on the Southernmost tip of the galaxy”.

I begin to look and feel like a New Planetarian, I dress the way they do, (although I draw a line at pink velour tracksuits, enormous silver hoop earrings and a belly button ring) I start to use colloquialisms, innit? At first I am unlucky enough (in my opinion) to be stuck in The Great Capital City but I master the supersonic underground transportation pod, start calling it the “Tube”, and begin to hate it like a true Native. I learn how to make polite conversation with strangers by instantly talking about the weather, I learn to queue...at the bus stop, at the supermarket, at the doctor’s surgery, on a hospital waiting list, outside a stadium in the pouring rain en route to a footy match or musical gig. And I do it without complaining (much).

I look the part, I’ve got the jargon down pat, I’ve mastered the system and yet as soon as I open my mouth I identify myself as an alien from another planet. I wonder if anyone ever truly feels part of their new planet, when their accent (unless an alien has the ability to change it like a certain blonde Amazon across the waters does) will always give them away.

No place like home?

2009-10-26T06:15:00.000-07:00

There are definite phases all new arrivals to the planet must endure. First off there is the elation and excitement when everything is new, everything is better, the public transport system is amazing, the postal service works, the telecast transmissions are stupendous, there are places to go and things to see, “stuff” seems so much more accessible to everyone, other garlic munching planets are only a hop, skip and a jump across 22 miles of watery cosmos, summers are really hot and the suns do shine from time to time, life is great in the land of plenty and then suddenly one day I wake and realise what I’ve done.

Reality strikes and the realisation of how different it all is leads to depression, where everything is wrong, the weather is dreadful, nothing is like home, the skies are overcast and soggy, I miss my family and friends, the weather is appalling, the natives aren’t that friendly and behave like foreigners, the suns only shine a few hours a day until the great deluge begins once more, no one in The Great Capital City speaks the lingo that it invented, the weather is pretty grim most of the time when it isn’t pouring and all I want to do is book my ticket, get on the next spacecraft and leave this soggy planet forever.

Many aliens give up at this point and return to the Southernmost Colony wiser but sadder. Others press through the dark days with the help of friendly Natives (and there are lots of these I discover) or the odd 500 000 other Southernmost Colony beings that live on this planet and I am happy to report that this is what I do.
For those planning on taking the journey or those newly arrived, it is a good idea to still mix with those of your home colony, as they understand the difficulties and challenges you faced daily. Equally important though, is that you mix with the Natives as it is only by doing this that you will fully integrate and stop looking back. A word of warning, you will occasionally come upon Natives that will try to take you to task for the not so distant policies of the authorities upon your previous planet. National guilt may even raise its nasty head, but once you have assured 'them' that you played no part in the evil machinations of the then-government and that you too abhor the system you grew up in, they will leave you alone to continue fitting in...hopefully.

And this is when the hard work really begins...

Newly hatched at Heathrow

2009-10-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

Something most newcomers find extremely difficult, not to mention frustrating and demoralising, is that of finding the right job. There is plenty of work out there and something I learn the hard way, is to put my pride in my pocket and get a job, any job, even if it’s not the kind I would ever have considered doing in the Southernmost Colony. Just getting in to the system can be a nightmare.

I am treated as though my life before never existed. Whatever I did and achieved and my years of experience in different fields on the other side of the universe, count for nothing here. Prospective employers have never have heard of the corporation I worked for before. Unless my Didactic Diploma was obtained here, it counts for nothing. Perhaps you were a well thought of pedagogue on the home planet, here you will find yourself considered an ‘unskilled educator’. Even if you were the Managing Director of an Interplanetary-Conglomerate and brought in millions each month, you will still be treated as though you served food and beverage in the office canteen. I learn quickly that despite the fact that I was at the top of my game and a Most Highly Thought of Being in my field, I have to be prepared to start again.

Now obviously, there are those who instantly find the job of their dreams and do not experience the newly hatched chicklet feeling. I’m very happy for them and I’m not bitter. Really I’m not. No, really, I’m not. This piece of wisdom is for those, like me, who have a nightmare of a time finding gainful employment where their skills and experience are appreciated.

My advice to prospective space travellers and those recently arrived on this planet is this; just do whatever you can till you find that perfect position. And yes, that just might mean doing a job you consider only suitable for “Previously Deprived Aliens”.

Consider working as Public Sanitation Technician, Family Environs Upkeep Manager, Transparent Wall Technician, Refreshments Overseer, Theft Prevention and Surveillance Officer or Wealth Distribution Prevention Officer …all perfectly acceptable and done by nice normal people like you and I.

And this is what I do, I take up the unenviable job of being an Alternative Pedagogue, which though soul destroying, does provide a good wage (I suspect most of it is danger pay), which enables me to accommodate and nourish myself till I find a place of employment where I am appreciated and not abused and/or threatened by adolescent and undeveloped Natives.

So you didn’t picture doing “something like that” on the New Planet? My advice? Get over it, roll up your sleeves and get stuck in. It doesn’t have to be forever...

The rant continues...

2009-10-22T02:36:00.000-07:00

Part of fitting in as an Interplanetary Wayfarer means turning your back on what you left behind. You may have had a large dwelling with twenty four boudoirs, a study, a pool, a driveway with actual parking space, a huge estate, an obedient lackey and any number of subservient minions, but you’re not going to have that here…not unless you are lucky enough to be loaded. Dwellings are small, gardens are smaller, the New Planet is tiny and bulging at the seams. Space is at a premium and you may feel decidedly cramped for a long time.

The stark fact of cross galaxy migration is this; fitting in requires effort and compromise, mainly from me. They know how things work and if I don’t, I’d better find out quickly, as ignorance is not considered a defence. If I don’t know, I should ask. This though, raises another problem. I have discovered to my chagrin and some annoyance that asking too many questions makes me look incompetent, so it is vital that I quickly learn the art of observation.

I begin to observe everyone (in a non-stalker way of course) and take on board how they do things, say things and operate. Watching people is an essential skill in surviving the cross galaxy migration process, and I continue to do so every day.

A little rant...

2009-10-22T02:31:00.000-07:00

When a being grows up in a system, he simply thinks that’s the way it should be. So to a New Planetarian, who has grown up with an efficient and functioning state of governance, it can be hard to understand a newly arrived alien going on about all the red tape and not realising the importance of doing things strictly according to the book. It’s hard to explain exactly why the way things get done seems so pernickety and officious.

But it’s something I get used to and begin to appreciate eventually. Once I have figured out “the system”, I realise that it works. One thing the New Planetarians do very well is run my life for me. Getting on the wrong side of the system, is not clever.

My point of view is this, and forgive me as I rant a while, if I’m going to go and live on a foreign planet on the other side of the Galaxy, and believe me the New Planet is foreign even if they do (sort of) speak the same language, it’s no good expecting things to be like they were at home. You can’t come and live on the New Planet and still expect to live under the laws of the Southernmost Colony. If driving like a lunatic while in command of an unroadworthy all terrain vehicle was acceptable in the Colony, it’s not acceptable here.

Nothing riles me more than those beings that have crossed the Galaxy to make a new home on this planet, and then completely disregard the way things are done here. Generally, this is a law-abiding society and if you can’t hack the law and can’t be bothered to obey, get on your spacecraft and go home.

It should have been so easy...

2009-10-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

I grew up on the Southernmost Colony, but speaking the language of the New Planet. My grandmother spoke fondly of the Great Ruler also known as the Queen of the New Planet and had Coronation Mugs and royal memorabilia on display in a bowl of gelatine. Every manuscript or hysterical publication we read came from the New Planet. On a Friday we waited with great anticipation for the hysterical publications for undeveloped and adolescent aliens to arrive by spaceship. These spoke to us weekly about life on The New Planet and woe betide if the spaceship was late.

I spent the days at the end of the week sequestered in my sanctum sanctorum devouring and swapping hysterical publications with my siblings, reading them over and over, cutting out pictures of famous ball kicking players and reading about musicians of enviable status. I spent my metamorphosing years bivouacking with the unrestrained youngsters in the pages of the books I read, solving mysteries with the unbelievably clever and astute undeveloped beings of the New Planet, who seemed at a moments notice to be able to cycle off on their unicycles or go camping in meadows without fear of aliens of other species and skin colours abducting them.

These young beings seemed so much more liberated in their abilities to disguise themselves, navigate the byways of their planet and solve the problems that the Developed Elders seemed incapable of sorting out themselves. Some of them attended exciting Institutions for Education where they slept in large communal sleeping areas and played pranks on their Pedagogues. I was beguiled by the descriptions of their antics and their nocturnal feastings on ginger-bread and sardines at the Witching Hour. Oh how I longed to attend such an Institution.

Since my own ancestors had only fairly recently (in the last 100 years or so), migrated to the New Colony at the southernmost tip of the galaxy, I felt more New Planet than Southernmost Colony and had aunts and uncles and cousins with strange accents that visited us from the New Planet. So having imbibed this culture from a young age, fitting in would be a lot easier for me than for those of my Colony that communicated in other parlance. Or so I thought…

And to follow soon, my observations of this small planet...

Deliverence

2009-10-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

Getting used to the traditions and customs of my new planet makes me feel as though I only hatched out of my egg when the spaceship landed at the Row of Heaths. It’s a bit like relearning everything I know. Yes, they do speak the same language, which is very useful for reading signs and communicating the most basic of needs. But actually, once I have lived here for a while, I discover that this is not the reality of it.

Coming from a planet where the Ruling Powers That Be are known far across the vast plains for their inefficiency, where it takes a month for a communication transcript to get from one side of any big metropolis to the other if it gets there at all, and where rules and laws can be bent, mutilated or broken to accommodate each different situation, living on the New Planet can be quite a daunting experience.

Imagine my wonderment on discovering that I can dispatch an epistle today and my friend on the other side of the planet will receive it tomorrow (except for this particular cyberspace epistle which will arrive instantly at the southernmost colony and all points north, west and east). Of course there are exceptions to the rule, but for the main part, I am still taken aback at the precision of the postal service here. And with the Yuletide season approaching at what seems to be a turbo-charged sprint, I am most grateful for this wonderment....despite the fact that the purveyors of said post have voted to spend their time during this period warming their feet by the fire instead of making the Yuletide deliveries!

Accents and actions ek se...

2009-10-20T03:20:00.000-07:00

The piece of planet I have landed on is full of other aliens also from the southernmost tip of the galaxy and I have no difficulty identifying them. Although they look the same as the natives, the moment they open their mouths I am able to sagely nod my head and mutter “newcomer” under my breath.

While travelling on the supersonic underground transportation pods (not present on their home planet), they speak too loudly and appear vulgar, even crass. They smile and laugh too easily, causing the natives to frown and purse their lips. They seem arrogant and are insensitive enough to actually speak to other members of the public also using these hot and crowded means of transportation.

Perhaps it is the novelty of rushing like some burrowing insect from the Planet Colioptra down the winding and unfamiliar supersonic underground transportation pod access tunnels, that has made these aliens behave in a socially unacceptable manner, but nonetheless I cringe quietly and make a mental note to remain quiet, obey the rules and somehow disguise my guttural accent so as not to offend anyone, because I have realised fairly rapidly that not all the natives are friendly.

First encounter with a native...

2009-10-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

I settle onto the couch of one who once dwelt on my now very far away home planet. He has survived the transition and is happy to educate me in matters pertaining to life on the New Planet. Such a companion/educator is essential and highly recommended for all newly arrived aliens .

Since I have pockets full of Treasure, I decide that the first thing I should do is deposit it in the nearest Institution for Finance and Receptacle of Wealth.

The day after arriving, I proudly present myself and my pile of Treasure (carefully hidden in a sturdy canvas bag) at the nearest and most sombre looking Institution for Finance and Receptacle of Wealth. I will need this facility when I finally get paid the first precious pieces of silver from my still to be found, new job. Unfortunately it proves easier said than done.

I begin to realise that I am a long way from home and that, although it sounds alike, the language spoken here is not entirely the same as that spoken Back Home on the southernmost tip of the galaxy. What happened next goes like this…

“Morning, I arrived from the southernmost tip of the galaxy yesterday and I’d like to open an account at your Institution.”

“Certainly. If I could just let me have a copy of you latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

“I only arrived yesterday and am staying with a friend, so I haven’t actually paid any accounts yet.”

“Yes I see. Well if I could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill, that will do to show me proof of residence…”

“Sorry, but I don’t think you quite understand me. I’ve only been on the planet for a day so I don’t have a permanent address yet, and as I’ve only been here one day I haven’t actually paid any bills but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find a dwelling of my own. I have all this Treasure (jingling the sturdy canvas bag) that I’d like to deposit into an account.”

“Yes, of course I understand. So if I could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill, to show me proof of residence…” (At which point the large orange vein in my temple begins to throb wildly).

“Look, listen carefully, I’ve only been here ONE DAY. I have NOT been here long enough to pay any bills yet, but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find somewhere of my own…”

“So, are you saying that you don’t have a recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill?”

“That’s right. I’ve only been this end of the universe for a day and I have not been here long enough to pay any bills yet, but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find a dwelling of my own…”

“There shouldn’t be any problem opening an account for you then….if you could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

(taking a deep breath and muttering direly)
“So are you actually saying that unless I have a recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to prove where I live, I can’t deposit my treasure in your Institution?”

“As I said, there shouldn’t be any problem opening an account for you ….if you could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

At which point I rant in an undignified and alien manner and storm out muttering in a tongue she does not comprehend. I realise later that I have just run into that great machination called Bureaucratic Beadledom, peculiar to this part of the Milky Way.

Breathing deeply and ready to take on the Empire I cross the street, walk into the next Institution and again present my case, to be told most politely that of course I can deposit my treasure and that obviously as I have only been on this planet for a day I wouldn’t have any recently paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bills, and that it is no problem as they have contingency plans for just such an event.

I am duly presented with a posh file of documents and leave on a high, having now secured my treasure a berth in the financial institution of my choice. I suppose it all depends on which Institution newly arrived aliens go to and whether or not the Being behind the Glass is able to take the initiative and make a decision if something said does not exactly fit in with the standard responses that are expected.

I wonder now if I will ever understand the natives...

Landing...

2009-10-19T03:02:00.000-07:00

No matter how smoothly the departure process takes place, there is not much that can prepare a Traveller for the stern and suspicious face of The Man at Colonization Control. He does not care that I have given up everything and everyone I love and sacrificed my comfortable life. He does not care that I have wept a bit, wondering if I’ve done the right thing and he certainly does not care that I am exhausted after a sleepless five nights with a screaming ten legged crustacean kicking the back of my chair for the last 102 hours.

No, his job is to make sure that I am here legally, that I can support and accommodate myself and the fruit of my loins without recourse to Community Cash, and also, to make sure that I do not have TB (Transgalactic Bercolosus). In the event that I did not realise this was an entry requirement and do not have the necessary x-rays (which I don’t) I am ushered to a refrigerated room, made to wait endlessly, then asked to disrobe so my lungs can be x-rayed.

Once this is done, I wait in petrified silence till said x-rays are developed and they are certain I am not bringing in any nasty diseases or contraband secreted in one of my cavities. I then return to the strict Man at Colonization Control who gives me a bit of a grilling and then because he’s in a good mood having already refused entry to 503 aliens that morning, he lets me through reluctantly with a look that says, “we’ll be watching you”.

I am allowed to collect my handkerchief and golf club and merge into the crowd. The ten legged crustacean is not as lucky and is searched, questioned and detained for hours before they politely put it on the next spacecraft and send it back.

And so the adventure begins…

Another piece of Poultry...

2009-10-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room is swarming with aliens of all sorts. Shapes and skins of differing textures and colours, some smelling strongly of animal products, species that differ in all ways from me but one, crowd The Waiting Room. The babble of voices speaking assorted tongues surrounds me, a cacophony of sound that hurts my auditory senses and I wonder what has brought them all here.I am returning to the planet of my forefathers so that I might in some small insignificant way complete the great cosmic circle and I am here at this hallowed place to get permission to cross the galaxy.

My choice to leave the home planet for galaxies new is both thrilling and terrifying. I am sure I will embrace it and everything it has to offer passionately… or I’ll give up and return beaten and cowed. The decision to go is not made easily and I foresee difficult times ahead. It’s not possible to simply wake up one morning and decide, “Hmm, today I think I’ll migrate across the solar system and try out life on another planet.”

No, it is a decision that requires planning and preparation and not a little courage. Despite the difficulties that are sure to ensue, I believe it is possible to survive in that distant place. Many have and I have feasted on their tales of splendour about the fields of green grass and the rivers of flowing honey that have crossed the stratosphere to enthral and excite those of us with a spirit for adventure…or those of us that need to run away from something. Of all the things I fear as I set about putting into place my departure that which I fear most is this, that not all the natives are friendly.

Despite the careful preparations, I’m nervous. I’ve done all the legwork. I’ve religiously saved my hard earned wages, sold my homestead, transportation, animals and regrettably my mother-in-law to raise the required millions that I need to make my application. And fortified with the juice of the Naar Tjie, I finally take that all important step and head off to wait in the queue for hours and hours from the dim dawn light till the Seventh Sun turns the little hard metal seats in The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room into something closely resembling a griddle pan for my numb posterior.

I arrive what I think is very early, only to find a raggle taggle line of cross looking prospective travellers already waiting. They are strewn across the dusty floor in various states of consciousness, some are reading, some are staring vacantly into space dreaming of the new life to come, some are attached to small pods blasting a mixture of beats, rhythms and harmony into their auditory canals. All have an anxious crease between their eyebrows or in the case of the Great Lummox of Boschbergenstein, triplet of unibrows.

Although the doors do not open for at least another four rotations of the Sixth Moon, the queue continues to grow and each arrival has heard the horror stories of being turned away to return only when the next solstice occurs, because the quota for the day had already been let inside and even though there are only two individuals in the line ahead of me, I remember with churning stomachs, that my friend’s relative’s great aunt’s cousin’s brother’s niece’s boyfriend had already been waiting for four and a quarter hours when the doors had firmly closed in his face and he had been advised to try again the next time the moon cast its shadow on the Halls of Montezuma.

Interplanetary travel is no joking matter and one needs fortitude, resolve and a large bladder.But since I arrived in good time, I am ushered though the glass doors, given a number and instructed to join the row of musical chair playing applicants. One by one, the numbers are called, the anxious looking seekers of freedom move up a chair so the next one who has been propped up against the wall can finally get a seat, and the wait continues. Every now and then a Being bursts into tears and rushes from the room pursued by a sweating partner, and I wonder what went wrong, what piece of the intricate puzzle was in the wrong place, if the Most Secret of all Police have somehow inserted their tentacles into the dream.

Scenes like this do not engender much confidence in me, so I hastily leaf through my documents to make sure I have not missed something. Finally my number is called and I present myself at the gleaming window, hand in my carefully collected documents and supporting evidence, my hopes and dreams neatly packaged on official stationary, and then move along to the cashier to pay for the Interplanetary Wayfarer Document, which might just be refused (and I will not be refunded my money).

Greasy stains from sweaty palms can be seen clearly on the counters in front of me. That nervous churning feeling of butterflies flying out of formation won’t really go away till I actually have the blood coloured Interplanetary Wayfarer Document safely secured in my Green Mamba Cross Galaxy Nomad Permit.

This of course all relies upon my having fulfilled every requirement, exactly and precisely the way the great interplanetary bureaucratic machine requires of me. If every “Ŧ” is not crossed correctly, if every “Ĩ” squiggled is not perfect, if every line is not completed painstakingly and accurately, if I do not have all the necessary permits and treasury statements showing that the requisite amount of treasure has been in my account for some months and is not just a vast amount transferred hastily from a rich uncle in the furniture business to try and fool “them” into thinking that I can indeed afford to live on their planet and which will be just as hastily be transferred back into his account the minute I have boarded the spacecraft, I will be refused Entry. If I cannot show the offer of employment from someone on the New Planet and confirmation of quarters for when I arrive with accompanying letters of proof from prospective providers of said quarters (this includes proof of ownership, recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bills, letter from a landlord granting permission for incumbent Space Travellers and/or relatives/friends to lodge/squat there till such time as gainful employment is secured) I will be sent away with my tails between my leg.

Finally, bladder bursting (because you are not allowed to leave the hallowed Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Room once you have graciously been ushered inside) I emerge triumphant, waving the precious document with jubilation.

As soon as my belongings are safely secured in my handkerchief and the handkerchief is safely secured to the end of my golf club, when the parties, the justifications for leaving, the heated debates with those that think I am just one more piece of poultry in the catastrophic inter-galactic chicken run, the insistences that I am doing the right thing and the tearful farewells at the space station are over, I finally board the spacecraft.

Seeing the last glimpse of barren brown planet slowly becoming smaller and smaller below, I feel a mixture of relief that it’s finally happening and aching soul wrenching sadness at leaving everything and everyone familiar behind, a feeling I will certainly continue to experience time after time. And there’s always the small voice at the back of my mind that insists vehemently… “if it doesn’t work out I can always go back”- isn't that why space craft were invented?