I tested the kitchen smoke alarm a couple of weekends ago. Baking an apple and boysenberry cake, the topping, dots of butter sprinkled with muscovado sugar, melted, oozed through the dodgy base of my aging spring form tin and began to burn.
Woke up this morning not to our plaintive Tui, who seems to have lost his song, but to a whacking great WHUMP! It shook the house, made the windows chatter in their frames like teeth in a shiver.
Damn developers we thought, making six dwellings where two once stood. But no.
The show-prayer fashion was everywhere this year. Why appeal to your maker in the changing-room or tunnel when you can do it front of millions? This is a special God, after all, a biased God, your own personal God who’s here for you, not the other blokes lining up beside you.