[The fax of course is not internet; but to a non-techie type like myself, it was almost as glamorous and came in that same bracket as email: instant access to overseas.]
(Any books you especially miss? I can keep an eye open - will be going through a lot in the next few weeks.)
Not really heartbreaking Rob: it would be if I thought about it so I'm not.
Thank you indeed for the kind offer. I haven't really taken note of any yet (maybe it's the no-thinks or maybe I'm over them).
I love Firefox: it's straightforward; and I don't see an advantage in being over-Googled. google search is great and the maps.
My first intersection with the internet was in 1995 or 1996 at an INL newspaper. I was specifically instructed that editorial staff access was locked down so journalists couldn't waste their time on it (ie reading foreign newspapers). Access was given on a strictly rationed case-by-case basis -- a bit like the best pens being kept in a locked cupboard in the assistant editor's office. Email addresses were verboten.
A couple of years later beloved had a fax machine at home that our neighbours used to come and worship and send glamorous notes to their friends and family who lived over the waters.
Reading Ian's and Stephen's offers of help has put me in mind of "what the vicar told me" yesterday. The Woolston-Opawa-St Martins river loop properties have have been hit hard. Because the properties are more spread out and individually affected than the wholesale inundation of the Flockton Basin, the free skips are few and the clean-up volunteers many fewer.
Households in Woolston have lost everything. The vicar reports people piling up the debris and setting huge bonfires to get rid of it all. No contents insurance means huge dump fees -- and that's if a car and a trailer or a skip are obtainable.
People are getting on with it; quietly despairing, knowing Civil Defence is at the end of its tether as everyone else.
Support from the authorities is minimal, but mostly not present.
While I'm at it, the council's claims of the flooding being to fast to call are crap: I walked to the river on Tuesday night at 9.30pm at high tide -- and it had well broken its banks. The rain had only been going a few hours. Sandbagging could and should have started early afternoon on Tuesday. The weather forecast and rain radars were clear and unambiguous. The appalling disconnect between the council apparatchiks and systems is still very evident.
Sofie you have had four out of the five top life-stress events concurrently. What a serve. One foot in front of the other, and a comfortable bed to hide in is my current recipe. Hugs.
Thanks Ian; this house is sorted.
Isabel: if there's anything we can help with: let me know. Transport?
We're going to wade through the past today: the remaining task is sorting the 20 boxes of books that were stored in the garage and have been dumped inside. They are the best Greg and I have collected over our adult lives; the ones we wanted our kids to be able to read.
When the September quake happened we were about to put up shelving in three rooms right around above the head-height panelling and up to the ceiling as a space saver. Open bookshelves up high became less attractive during the aftershocks: belted with Berlin? Thumped by Thesiger? Pelted by Pilger?
Some casualties so far -- mostly the best of the fiction that I kept for when the boys were this age and up; all the NZ classics.
I don't want in any way to minimise others' disasters, but it has been good to bin things I have a strong attachment to without looking back. On Friday Greg and I were by ourselves emptying the vile garage flood. We dealt with it in our Irish disputes resolution manner: a bellowing scrap. Building from a disagreement about the sorting sequence into a roaring swearing hurling: "I've always fucking hated this" Biff. "Why the fuck is this still here?" Hurl.
Three years of behaving well broke, and we had a good clean war for three or four hours, taking out all our anger and frustration about the way life has really been hard, the grief, the everything about living in this buggered city. Feels great; lighter.
Jane Bowron is going back to Welly: I'm envious, sort of: another wave of people is leaving now: #overit.
Been doing a bit of neighbourhood de-gunging. Neighbour's two trailerloads to the dump (all the free skips are overflowing): $215. Thanks CCC. Not.
Wanker on a sit-up bike comes past: eight people working to fill the trailers -- sewage-infested mud through the pile of stinking soaked memories. "You can't throw those doors away: they are recycleable." Fortunately for prat with beard sitting on his 800-buck bike, beloved, property owner and I were working with a group of lovely young churchy people from the other side of town who had given up their Sunday afternoon. Or else we would have pushed him in the river while he lectured us.
I hear reports of a group of people around the river in Opawa who have lost everything: they have piled the lot up on the riverbank and set a bonfire. That's awful that they are so desperate and at the end of their tether.
I feel blessed, sad and angry. Blessed for the help and support given to us.
Angry at the spin-and-grin appearances of the PM who was able to spend 30 minutes on sweeping in front of cameras before he swanned off to a good-news presser.
Another instalment on the flood risk/land changes etc. As Rob Stowell says, it's mind-bendingly complex.
A piece I read recently online said that in the due-out-this-month draft District Plan the 50-year-flood FMA had been changed to include the 200-year-flood transition zone.
Love Will Terrace Apart ....'Transylvania Waters'
Very clever! Siltia Waters?
"Christchurch Is Pumping": class.
We could rebrand ourselves the Venice of the Southern Hemisphere.