So here’s what I want.
I want the police in west Auckland investigated so thoroughly their skin turns red and they can’t sit for month. I’m sorry for those who will be put through the mill unfairly that is the price you pay for allowing your colleagues to be scum.
I want the lying scum policepersons found and identified and thrown in jail for the harm they have allowed to occur. They should lose their jobs but they should also be criminally liable (and yes I know they are not). They do have to be ejected from the police force.
Thank you, Bart. You've expressed better than I can the anger that I'm feeling.
What I want, what I really, really want is for somebody in the Police - the Commissioner, the District Commander, somebody - to speak honestly, to show some fucking emotion and to stop hiding behind weaselly, soothing, sanitised Comms Adviser pap.
What I want is for the Police to take at least some action against the men (and I use the term loosely) that started all this. What they have done to those young women is criminal. Whether it meets a strict legal definition or not of a crime, what they have done is criminal and unconscionable and they shouldn't be able to walk away from it.
And what I really want - and I have no idea how it could be done but it must be possible - is for somebody to talk to those girls, those young women and to look after them and counsel and comfort them (I keep hearing Celia Lashlie's voice here) and to show them that not all people in power are callous and uncaring.
Is that too much to ask?
I don't know. I really don't know any more.
End of rant.
It’s like WTF is her calling in life.
Press Secretary in waiting?
The absolute certainty, the utter conviction, the unswerving faith. <Goes to tear hair out. #1 cut. Bugger> I've never seen this blogger before and I trust I never read her again.
Through Omaha? Oh, yes, I like it.
This is like my great-grandfather's house at Oruru, a wee bit inland from Mangonui. It's gone now but I remember going to see it with my Dad; a tiny three room cottage (although cottage is rather a twee word for something made from pit-sawn totara with hand-made nails) that was once home to five people but now housed a few dusty hay bales. It's where we kids learned the family story. My great-grandfather was Portuguese and had jumped ship from an American whaler with three other Portuguese lads in Mangonui. They all settled in and around Oruru and Fern Flat and Peria. The names and the families are still there; the Jecenthos and the Da Silvas. My great-grandfather is buried there, somewhere. My holiday this year is going to see if I can find his grave. I've decided to have a miniature mid-life crisis at the same time by doing the journey around Northland in my Mum's (and now my) 1963 Fiat Bambina. I'm going to travel putteringly slowly and see the place I call home with grown-up eyes. My plan is to write about it but I haven't told anybody that.
(Has this been done?)
The Salivation Army