The snow is still not behaving itself according to the best-laid plans of calendar time. Weather is affecting play. It's just not/not just cricket. There's a marked lack of adrenaline in the supermarket lines. Listen. You can almost hear the jet plane engines warming up around Wanaka.
Now is the winter of our discontent. There's nothing and no-one apart from gaslighters, truckers and renovators on the television and, to compound matters, in our house the Wi-Fi is on intermittent strike because unlimited Wi-Fi was not, last time we looked, enshrined as a human right. This, as you can imagine, is causing epic freeze levels, especially among the teenage factions.
Now is the winter of our discontent. One of Shakespeare's most-quoted soundbites - the first line of Richard III, to be precise. But who reads Shakespeare anymore, even when the Wi-Fi's off? It's too haaaaaaard. He's too ollllllld. I've got to con-cen-traaaaaate to understaaaaaaand.
Restlessness is discontent, said Thomas Edison, in maybe a lightbulb moment - and discontent is the first necessity of progress. Show me a thoroughly satisfied man - and I will show you a failure. But progress has progressed to mean consumerism; satisfaction, a must-have; discontent a niggle to be purchased into submission.
Now is the winter of our discontent. It's dark and we're scared that one day spring won't come. Plastic Free July is making people nervous / judgey / smug / despondent / frighteningly aware of the magnitude of the problem; Dry July, much the same.
Now is the winter of our discontent. Ninety-two days is two thousand two hundred and eight hours, though less than half of those will be sunlit, even if the inversion stays away. A hundred and thirty two thousand four hundred and eighty minutes is a lot of time to get things done. Restless much? Calculations like this may or may not increase your discontent and your ability to sleep at night.
Now is the winter of our discontent. Since you can't sleep, maybe read on, only one more line. Context is everything and we're getting too used to grazing the surface of things. Soundbites can never tell the whole story. Read on, read on. Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun.
TC's almost bound to open eventually (one run doesn't count, according to the teenage factions) under some ownership or other and if it doesn't, people in want of some outdoor smiles can always go up the coast and help with the continuing clean-up at Fox. The protesting people with the white painted sheets might win out over those who believe that an airport here is a good or inevitable idea.
The new wheelie bins could be just what we need to visibly consolidate our changing consumption habits. All the good in the world exists at the same time as all the bad in the world and there are only one thousand one hundred and seventy six hours until the calendar says it's spring. It's lighter already. See? And since it's Shakespeare, and as is so often the case, and we're bothering to understaaaaand, there's another subtle change in the reading of that almost-couplet.
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son. The son. And the daughter, of course. Strumming the uke, thrashing the guitar, singing along. Not the same song at the same time or anything peaceful like that, but it's some kind of Edison-esque progress. And, even at their most wintry, the teenage factions, they are glorious.
