of the small talk: into it~!

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These guys above were a lot smaller than they look. Tiny in fact. But don’t take my word for it, come here in mushie season and see for yourself (Queens Park, Invercargill).


This wee rodent has reached an accommodation with the birds in my niece’s backyard aviary—he’s no threat to anybody and neither is she, or the birds. Everyone is happy and he gets all the feathers he can eat for free.

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And this is the shot I was looking for but didn’t find yesterday. A tiny wax-eye with a feral apple.

So few of those self-set apples left these days, at the side of what I think must’ve been a coaching road in the horse-drawn carriage age. Travellers chomped their apples and tossed the cores out, cores hold seeds, seeds spill out and some took …

hang in there, Ba-bee.png

Don’t feel cheated if you’ve seen it before—that’s ‘cos I posted it before. That bee was possibly sound asleep or whatever it is bees do when loading up with morning sunlight and warmth and neither of us disturbed the other.  Tiny wee thing.


is a tiny—

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—shot of a larger whiteboard memo thingy. We used to use it for shopping lists and stuff, but She stopped once I’d drawn the above one morning.

Some weeks later we had a cop cold calling, hoping for witness statements concerning something of which we didn’t know much; so we sat him down and he joined us for morning coffee … was fascinated by and just couldn’t take his eyes off it. I think we made a bit of a change from his usual day’s working environment. Nice young guy, already old beyond his years.

We still have it but definitely showing its age now so we keep it tucked out of harm’s way.

Challenge met?

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Here then, have a last final thought—

—the red dots are (wait for it~!) tiny rubies …


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sure beats barkin’


WPC: Careful

Every week another challenge. And who would we be to refuse?


scene. We went to Gore for the day. Gore is a small town that until fairly recently was famous for its youth, bored kids who crawled out of the woodwork at night—kids who became known as ‘Gorons’. A local name for a universal product.

A no-holds-barred policing policy sorted them out but a few bits of their legacy live on, sometimes under bridges where other trolls dwell—

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—and on a bright spring morning it’s hard to catch the ‘art’ work without taking liberties with exposures and stuff. This is the surviving part of an earlier road bridge over the local river. LOOK: I know it’s fashionable to consider (okay, to spout that you consider) such vandalism as ‘folk art’ but to me it’s nothing but colour-muck spread by the talentless. The purveyors of this ‘art’ belong in the same asylums as the guys who blow up ancient Buddha statues, or smash ‘heathen idols’ in mid-Eastern museums. Bleuch.


their great works contain wannabe swastikas. Young hoons apparently all admire Nazis and Naziism, no end. One can forgive pignorance*  in the unsophisticated but surely if they’re going to spray symbols on structures they could get them right? (Yer actual Nazi swastika as a burning cross rotates anti-clockwise.)

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Possibly a hundred years or more ago engineers and clever chaps with theodolites and mathematical tables did lots of sums and built the bridge, in the course of which they installed flood gauges.

Flash forward to today’s youth and you get these sprayed on desecrations—which the Politically Correct assure us are ‘folk art’ (and the vibrant expressions of frustrated creative youth). Yeah, right.

Moving on …

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An unfair comparison: the old bridge on the left there, the more recent current bridge on the right/overhead as we stand; monuments to the past — and some great modern artworks adding class to the otherwise crass commercial functionality.

I know it’s art—true art evokes emotions, no?

And we have to be careful how we treat it, even with cameras …



* Pignorance = pig ignorance

WPC: Beneath Your Feet



When last in Gore I ambled along what’s left of once very busy shunting lines. Amazing the amount of steel just lying about underfoot, some still scrod to the ground—even complete with little piles of screws and other bits where some long passed artificers dropped them—

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These lines go nowhere now, they do nothin’ but end in wee piles of neatly dumped gravelly stuff. (Why, I have no idea—the very thought of a train coming along along these rails now belongs on either the Sci Fi or the Occult shelves)—

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—sure, the crossing signs are still up on that road in the distance but they are covering the one active line that’s been left to carry an occasional freight from Invercargill (I think). Bummer. No passenger ferries at all.

I still like the idea enthusiastically espoused by some old goat in Auckland* that time ‘they’ were bleating about gridlock traffic congestion on the roads and Harbour Bridge (whilst whimpering about all the unused railways still lying around)—an idea to the effect that there’s no reason why they couldn’t simply slip a bus or several dozen onto rail wheels and just drive them along, turning hardly used cargo routes into commuter routes. Hell, it’s not even a unique thought—I remember seeing a road truck scamper by on the rails with cheerily grinning railway maintenance guys waving tools. It could be done but sadly seems a bit too “outside the box” to even be considered; thus millions of dollars of capital assets quietly rust and fester.


you must already be pondering the next image. There’s a sorry tale behind it—also in Gore, I must add. When out I like visiting all parts of a place. And when once on the other side of the tracks I was bimbling along a street filled with some of the most interesting piles of deceased cars I observed not far in front what appeared to be stacks of ex-motor vehicles with saplings growing up through them.

I wanted a shot, and went closer … yep, definitely. Trees penetrating various steels and things, right through the floors and out through the roofs or windows or otherwise holes.

I shot this one on final approach—

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—with the intention of putting the lens through a hole in the netting of the gate. There was no-one around anyway, so I poked the lens to the hole and quietly entered orbit.

One has to give credit where it’s due. As I slowed to a mere gallop quite some distance up the road—amazing, such reflexes even at my age—that damn’ dog deserve all the credit in the world.

He must have detected me from a long way off (scent, perhaps; instincts honed by habit and boredom, maybe) and silently shadowed my every cheery step along that blasted fence until the ideal ambush was set, armed, and sprung.

Ye utter gods.

I’ve seen huge dogs in my time, and heard them, and on occasion been held captive—but never by such a consummate Master. Think pit-bull crossed with Neapolitan mastiff and aurochs. Slobber? No, that was me afterwards, trying to still my pounding heart—he was all teeth and red eyes with a volume any jet airliner on takeoff revs would envy.

I didn’t hear him—I just felt; and that was through corrugated iron and mesh. He blended his paroxysm of racket with the first hurl of his body into the fence immediately below where my lens was about to trespass—dumb dog, that reverberating THUD by itself would have sufficed.

If he were trying to reinforce the lesson it worked—I give all points to him except for the tiny one I awarded myself (afterwards) for my instant panic-plan … if he’d got out, I was going in.

Not bad for the exigencies of the moment—I’d surrender my share of the street to him for a place in his very own personal yard; wherein the second part of my clever plan was to promptly go aloft on the nearest of those wrecks and once there improvise a weapon of any kind and defend my new kingdom to the death. I don’t know how high huge heavy battle-dogs can jump … it would have been just my luck that he’d figure out how to climb too (and/or wasn’t alone in there). Brrrrr~!

WISER NOW, and desperately in need of a black coffee I gave away photographing anything and staggered off to meet The Spouse. I’m sure I heard a snigger as I wobbled away—in a pronounced canine accent.



*Moi. (Did you guess?)


a few years ago

to use a



I did so. Hard to regret doing so, so I never have (regretted) (sheesh~!) …

Not only does it serve as a first line of defence for the front elements of your actual lens you can tweak it and it does things. Magical things—especially to skies, colours, and water … looking for fishies and all you can see is the gorgeous reflected leafery of autumn? Go further down the page and see what you might do to your current puddle for a mere minor outlay of funds.


were snapped from standing positions, hand-held. They were taken within seconds of each other, the only difference being the rotation (angle of twist) of the filter. Likewise for the stream snaps further down—not only can your lovely polariser add depths to colours, by reducing surface reflections it can add depths to depths. You’ll have to find your own fish though.

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Above:  late afternoon sun on St Aardvarks in Dee Street.

Below:  likewise but with a wee twist to the lens.

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Below, a cute little streamlet/creek thing in autumn, near the Winton golf course. Over a few weeks I took this snap quite a few times but of course cleared ’em from the computer … so by the time it occurred to me to take a ‘keeping’ snap I’d lost the power of those colours—

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—but not the effect of the polariser; again two shots from the same place at the same time within seconds—

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—and not a single Photoshop in sight. Boom boom!


hence to your local photo shop and price yourself a polarising filter.

I think mine was around twenty-thirty bucks (kiwi) and I just leave it permanently in place on the end of the lens. I have no idea by how much it reduces the light but should I ever need to remove it the things comes off in seconds (years ago I had an Olympus OM2n and used the Cokin filters. Brilliant, just slip ’em in or out, no screwing).

Now go get one, and no—I’m not on a commission …




WPC Symbol

my humble and most grovelling




because what you are about to receive/perceive (whatever) isn’t mine. It’s something I uplifted from the web (good ol’ Google~!).


Doc Moron, smokes


So in the current political climes I leave it to you to make of it what you will. Any further commentary from me would be superfluous and/or redundant.

But it could well serve in the office of symbolising an earlier age … which raises the nagging doubt:

what will future ages use to symbolise us?

Ooops … frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a BR’s A. I just regret that I can’t post the above on the WPC. Bummer …




Déja Vu


means to have seen before. How nice.


I don’t know the words used for seeing what isn’t there. Sometimes it was there before but time, as they say, moves on. So here’s a nice snap taken sometime early last century or late in the one previous—

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—which I uplifted form an informative sign posted by the local Council (in the course of my explorations I’d entered into the ancient site of the Waihopai/Invercargill wharfs area). It’s sobering to note that those cheery souls admiring the the docking are now as deceased as the jetty that ship is about to park at, which now looks like this—

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—all due to the forces of Nature. The jetty was built by convict labour at a time (brief) when Southland went through a period (brief) of great prosperity based apparently on a gold rush (brief). Merchants thrived (briefly) as they tend to do in gold rushes or wars but it wasn’t to last—

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—not many rockets go up and down and back up and down again but somehow Invercargill manages it. The next great prosperous wave was on the back of the sheep. But sheeps are off, Luv, and now the cow is taking centre stage down here as farms frantically convert from woollies to milkers.


of researching this scholarly article for you I strolled out on a still accessible “what’s left of the wharf” and accessed this snap. Possibly not evident here is one of those faces that people sometimes see in ship’s wakes ofr burning buildings. It calls for a bit of mental relaxation but you may just see it, with effort (Clue: tip your head over to the right)

face 1


face 2—and in case you missed it, here it be again only this time slightly more distinctive by virtue of isolating and flipping—he (she, it …) looks a grumpy old soul but I put that down to the forces of nature still hard at work. (Let me tell you, those clouds were coming and going, just an hour or two later the day really turned to cactus~!)


our lady MPHIX, whose eagle eyes first drew to my attention the possibilities in flipping and thereby opening new perspectives, I offer a snippet from the F of N shot I posted elsewhere recently.

The gods, it seems, fill this mundane world with unseen imagery—hence the fortunes to be made in all ages, climes and times by the astute people who can read the minds and intentions of said gods and interpret the symbolism and meanings for We, the Hoi Polloi; and my utmost admiration goes for creators of the world’s great religions—fortunes based on faith, it don’t come no better than that.

Screen Shot 2015-05-11 at 19.14.35Anyway, my thanks to an agile mind that showed me how to flip like this—it’s amazing how two wee black swans (“No such animal!” roared the Scientific Establishment*) can be flipped into two black beasts.

Symbolism gets no better than this—even if you do go blind after just a few flips, or have to wander out for a coffee. Eyeball agility comes at a price to the old and doddering, better to use eyePhoto instead …

As I’m doing right after this post—the Forces of Nature drive even me, and coffee is natural …



* Royal Society, I think (can’t be bothered looking it up. It was some great bunch of Scientific Genius Experts) …

A wee while ago

I added a

new ‘Page’

or three to my blogs. As well as the usual ‘About’ you can now help yourselves to genuine free … literature. Boom boom~! TONIGHT after morosely pondering that nobody seems interested I revisited my own ‘Tabitha’ (she of the Swindleham Spooks fame) and thought “Oh well” … but while there I snipped a sample or two to give you a wee taste of the style. Hereunder be your snippings— .

‘The trap has sprung, Minister.’

Sir Ambrose swivelled his chair to the window and gazed thoughtfully across the rooftops of London.

‘No,’ he murmured. ‘The trap is baited.’

Bishous stood up and stretched. The look of quiet amusement was back on his face.

‘Were there any problems?’

‘Almost,’ said Lickspittle. Bishous’s eyebrows raised in query. ‘The girl seemed to realise at the last minute. She stopped.’  

‘Tabitha Templar,’ Bishous said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve met her before, too. She’s very intelligent and could be a real danger in the future. But if we can get her on our side while she’s young she would be a major asset to us. She could go a very long way. What happened?’

‘It was all televised live, Minister. Would you like to see the recording?’ Lickspittle loaded the video recording. He stood poised at Sir Ambrose’s shoulder.

‘Here’s where she was beginning to twig,’ Lickspittle said as the Tabitha on the screen peeped over shoulder, directly into the lens of the camera. Bishous could almost feel her mind racing. He leaned forward.

‘There!’ Bishous suddenly called, pointing with a solid gold pen at the screen. ‘There’s where she’s weighing up her options. Look how she is scanning all around, measuring the forces against her … see, now she realises she can’t possibly outrun them! Too many. She knows that. Look at the tilt of her head towards the sentry-box, there, she’s sussed it! She knows that she will be allowed to pass, but if she does she will reveal either a weakness in the energy field or demonstrate that she can penetrate it unharmed.’

The recording ran a few more seconds before Bishous paused it again.

‘Look! Here she’s decided against trying to mislead us by pretending that the field affects her, too. And now—’

‘Why is she sitting down, Minister?’

‘Because she’s calling our bluff,’ Bishous said in admiration. ‘She knows the game is up and is sending a clear signal to us, saying “Come and get me, but on MY terms” — what an incredible child!’

Bishous watched as dozens of soldiers suddenly converged on Tabitha and she disappeared from view. An ambulance rushed onto the screen, Miss Fawcett and the blonde lady got out wearing nurse’s uniforms. The screen went blank.

‘How did you justify the ambulance?’ Bishous asked.

‘The announcer said that the girl had collapsed and needed medical assistance.’

‘Good thinking! But that ambulance was too quick off the mark. Most people won’t notice, though. They’ll just think their authorities are on the ball, as usual. Well done!’

Bishous tilted his chair back and placed his elegant feet gently on top of the Chippendale desk.

‘I want her in CCSE4 by sunset,’ he said.

‘Oh! But sir — she’s just a little girl!’

‘She’s an ace up my sleeve, Lickspittle,’ Bishous said in amusement. ‘She is also a threat to national security. Do it!’

‘On what charge, Minister?’

Bishous grinned. ‘With CCSE4 we don’t need a charge, we can just deny having ever seen her. But for now a simple holding charge will do, if you really feel you have to. Make it something like “suspected of consorting with known terrorists”. We can think of something a bit more permanent later. Thank heavens we had the law changed last year, we can hold her forever now, just on suspicion.’

‘We’re changing quite a few laws lately, aren’t we?’


.I base my own CCSE4 on the concepts behind the creation of Gitmo. The Land of the Free beat me to it with their Guantanamo Bay ‘holding facility’ but not by much. Anyway, here’s a wee description of CCSE4 for you— .

Continue reading “A wee while ago”