I’m watching season one of The Mighty Boosh.   Our two heroes are Harold Moon and Vince Noir.  They work in a Zoo.  The show doesn’t really make sense, but it makes more sense if you know that the original idea of the two comedians who made it was to become the new Goodies, and that they “both had fathers who loved Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart, and who encouraged their sons to avoid getting proper jobs.” 


But what appeals to me about the show so far doesn’t have much to do with this.  I never really liked The Goodies (well, I did a bit, but thought other shows were funnier), and I have always sort of detested Zappa and Beefheart.  What I love about the two main characters are that they are really little boys who haven’t had their sense of wonder and imagination pummelled out of them.  Quite often when Harold and Vince are about to die they reflect on the good times they have had together:

Vince Noir: Howard? You think it’s going to be alright?
Howard Moon: No. We’re gonna die in the most horrific way known to man.
Vince Noir: [smiling] Had some good times, though, didn’t we?
Howard Moon: Yeah…
Vince Noir: Huh… yeah…
Howard Moon: [wistfully] Remember the time we had that soup?
Vince Noir: That was brilliant.
[they start singing]
Howard Moon, Vince Noir: Soup! Soup! A tasty… Soup! Soup! A spicy, carrot and coriander…
Vince Noir: …chilli chowder!
Howard Moon, Vince Noir: Crouton! Crouton! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth.
I am gazpachio… OH! I am a summer soup… Mm! Miso! Miso! Fighting in the dojo. Miso! Miso! Oriental prince in the land of soup!
[they stop singing]
Vince Noir: Classic times.
Howard Moon: [shaking his head] Crazy days…

Most of these songs are accompanied by an elaborate sequence of hand gestures and dance moves.  It’s absurd, but it’s also rather sweet, and suggests a long friendship and many adventures together.  Or should that be japes.  Jolly japes.  In The Mighty Boosh it feels more like we are escaping into a world of absurd B-grade boys own adventures (with rubbish special effects) than into the surreal adult world of Dali, and I was quite chuffed when I found an article where Vince more or less says the same thing:

[Vince]  insists it’s more fitting to refer to the influence of children’s books: particularly Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and Raggety, the spiky, scary forest creature made out of sticks who encounters Rupert Bear.

I read Rupert Bear books when I was a kid and loved them.  For awhile I think they were locked in the “WE ARE ASHAMED” cupboard of libraries along with the Noddy books.  Noddy was put there because of his unhealthy relationship with Big Ears, Rupert for fighting with Golliwogs.

I think we might need to go and look at Sendak next.

Howard Moon: Just imagine the headlines ‘Howard Moon, Colon, Explorer’. Got a ring to that don’t it?
Vince Noir:
Colon Explorer?
Howard Moon:
You know what I saying.
Vince Noir:
I think that’s got the wrong ring to it.


I took Eleanor to creche this morning.  She is usually quite keen on creche and breathlessly lists all of the people she will see when she gets there.  This morning when I was trying to negotiate her into the car seat I asked her: “Do you want to go to creche?” and she said, in a small voice, “no”.

Sometimes Eleanor says no and she really means “yes, but I’m going to say no because you’re manipulating me and I know it”.  This time I think she meant no.

When we got to creche I took her over to the table where the other kids were playing with play dough.  She made little play dough birthday cakes, put toothpicks in the top for candles and then blew them out and cut me a piece.  Eleanor likes this little ritual of the birthday cake.  I stayed for awhile and enjoyed some of her cake, but then it was time for me to go.  She wouldn’t let me go.  She clung to my leg and asked for cuddles and howled.  It was hard to go.


I never liked school when I was a student.  I can remember getting into my uniform when I was about seven years old and hating it.  I worked out how many years it would be until I could leave.  When you are only seven then ten years is an enormous amount of time.  Ten years seemed like a prison sentence.  Well I served my time, and here I am, still at school.

The first day at Kapiti College was hard, because I had been to primary school in Wellington and I didn’t know a single person at my new school.  It was like being a wall flower at some enormous party, sitting uncomfortably against the wall wanting to with Mum, or friends, or by myself but knowing that I had to confront this thing called growing up.

This thing called growing up.  It never stops.

I sat in the car outside creche and felt down.  I want to make Eleanor feel loved and happy all the time, but I also want her to find the happiness of finding herself, becoming herself and having the strength to be independent when she is a woman.  Is this what it feels like to be a parent?  Is it a slow tearing apart that never leads to separation?  Is it the consolation of love built on a store of memories?  A little loss.  A little loneliness at the end.


We went to Otaki Beach from Wednesday to Sunday.  Even though I was born in Paraparaumu, and went to secondary school there I never went the twenty kilometres up the road to Otaki until I was at university and had a friend who was from there.  Mind you, you’re not missing much if you haven’t been to Otaki. 


C. works with a woman who owns a beach house at Otaki Beach, and we stayed there.  It’s a small, simple  house  with one big bedroom and another very small one.  There is a fair bit of section and a garage.  Although it’s perhaps two (three?) blocks back from the beach you can always hear the sea when you are at that house.  It was this sound that inspired me to write the beginning of a story.  Here is the story:


“What does the sea sound like?”

“It sounds like a relentless machine, grinding at its work, its business of turning stones into dust.”

The day is slowly brightening.  The clouds which were heavy and grey and uniform are beginning to tear open leaving fingers of charcoal coloured cumulus across the widening pools of blue.  Soon it will be completely blue and the cicadas which have whirred and stopped, whirred and stopped through the morning will rise up in a constant din, their engine finally catching and starting.

“Does it sound like the trees?”

“Yes.  Like the trees pulling their heads back and forward under the pressure of the wind in the night leaving that feeling inside you that is small, and lonely and sad, that makes you scuttle home and turn on all the lights, and the TV and the radio and call a friend and joke and laugh until you feel big again, and undiminished.”

“It’s a bad sound?”

He sighs.  They went into the town that morning and drove past the teenagers lingering outside the shops, swapping cigarettes, all dressed up in their very best sneakers and caps, checking out the boys that cruise past: the poor boys on foot, the boys on bikes, the seventh-formers in cars.  And when they go to buy a drink or a packet of chips those kids don’t recognise themselves in the heavy breasted, hard bellied adults inside that are considering the price of bananas in the supermarket, and talk about cutting back.  They don’t notice the old, bent figures with their belts cinched at the waist slowly shuffling to the checkout ahead of them with a packet of biscuits and a box of tea bags.  That is also the sound of the sea.

“No, it’s not a bad sound.  It’s an honest sound.  It’s like a detuned radio, a radio without the hot angry buzzing talk about parking tickets, and immigrants and forward passes, without the irritation with life that overtakes you sometime after thirty-three.  Just the roaring of nothing; steady and empty.”


            But it also reminds him of running with his daughter when she was two across the hard packed sand and feeling love rise up like a bursting bubble in his chest.  The way she ran on the edge of a small fear of falling, not quite able to keep a sure foot and run and throw her sunny glances up at him; a teetering, giggling run with hair flapping about her face.  He remembered standing on the beach afterwards near the dunes and looking across the sand to Kapiti Island.  He wasn’t used to seeing Kapiti Island from that angle; from that beach the island seemed to bulk up and squat in the waves with all its length foreshortened and compressed into a dark, hunched form.  Further down the beach there were kids playing and a dog.  The dog ran in long arcs, it’s wet, sandy nose down at the level of smells and shells, while the children crouched over a mound of sand and a hole sometimes skittering away on the balls of their feet to collect driftwood.