Island Life by David Slack

37

The Grouse is done to a turn, my Lord.

Perhaps Lockwood Smith is more fussy than most people about what he puts in his mouth, but if I were him, I wouldn’t feel at all perturbed about having to swallow some dead fish. I actually quite enjoy it.

Perhaps he’s not trying the right kind. Let’s help him out: here are ten ways I like to do it. Feel free to add your own.

1. Whitebait fritters
2. Anchovies on anything
3. Kokoda
4. Bouillabaisse at a Marseilles cafe
5. Blackened redfish
6. Salmon from a sushi bar
7. Snapper on a pan, five minutes out of the sea
8. Bluff oysters as they come
9. Crayfish any way you like, except with steak
10. Fingers.

313

Let’s learn English, with John Key.

What is a paraphrase?

Well hello there. Hey, when you and I were at school, it’s fair to say that a paraphrase meant something pretty unambitious. It meant you took someone's words and said them another way to make it clear what they meant.

That might be good enough for the tired and cynical government of Helen Clark and Michael Cullen, but it's not good enough for the National Party.

When we use a paraphrase, we take the words our people have said and we give them a top-up of ambition.

We’re focused on what’s important. So we take out the words that aren’t important and we focus on the ones that are.

Take Lockwood. Someone - probably some Labour stooge - snuck up behind him with a recorder the other day when he wasn't looking and went running to TV3 with the tape.

Well, of course what he said didn’t sound quite right. Fair enough. No-one can go on sounding ambitious 24/7. So it came out like this.

There's some bloody dead fish you have to swallow ... to get into Government to do the kinds of things you want to do ... and you have to balance up what really matters.

If you try to do everything differently you'll scare the horses and under MMP it's very hard to win.

Once we have gained the confidence of the people, we've got more chance of doing more things.

We may be able to do some things we believe we need to do, perhaps go through a discussion document process ... you wouldn't be able to do them straight off ... I'm hoping that we'll do some useful things that way that may not be policy right now."

Now some people seem to think that what Lockwood means is: we’ll tell people whatever it takes to get them in our taxi cab, but once they’re in, we’ll take them to the other side of town from where they were headed. But that’s not what he means. To believe that you’d have to believe that I want to be a taxi driver. I would never want to be a taxi driver. Not that there’s anything wrong with being one.

If you want to know what Lockwood meant, you have to understand how to use a paraphrase going forward. If you do that, you’ll find that we’re ambitious to a man. Not forgetting the girls, of course.

And that’s what I did on the radio this morning. Geoff Robinson was all: you guys aren’t being straight with us and I said, well look, my friend, you haven’t paraphrased it.

If you paraphrase what Lockwood said going forward, it comes out as: You need to win public confidence and you need to talk to people. Leave out the bit about keeping shtum, leave out the bit about wanting to do something different from what we say we want to do, just concentrate on the bit where he goes: your call is important to us.

That’s what we’re all about. If you boil a hundred words down to ten, things are always clearer.

That's what I call paraphrasing. It’s ambitious, it’s focused and it cleans out all the needless detail.

Who needs 36 pages of words when you can fit them on one? Only a dawdling fool like that silly old bugger James thinks that sort of thing still matters. He needs to focus.

25

And later on, a bit of a sort out

Quiz for the day. Who said this, and of whom?

They have inherited a superiority complex as well as a persecution complex. They are convinced that they are the superior few who know the truth and are entitled to rule. But they are afraid to speak the truth openly, lest they are persecuted by the vulgar many who do not wish to be ruled by them.

5

The hide of a politician

Mostly I am just sick and tired of Winston Peters’ bluster. Just talk straight, you vain, conniving man. While he persists in refusing to do so, let us return once more and again to the transcript provided by Audrey Young of that complete farce of a press conference.

Nonetheless there are still brief moments of delight to be taken from the story, albeit in diminishing quantity. One gem was provided by Finlay Macdonald yesterday morning in his Sunday Live review of the week with Andrew Patterson. I recommend you begin your Monday morning by clicking here.

37

Staring into space

It would be untrue to say I was a homely looking child, but at the age of seven I got my first pair of glasses, and at that point things took a turn for the worse. They were big, horn-rimmed and dark, and they covered a large part of my face. The most calamitous break to my nose was yet to come, so the Groucho Marx effect was not as pronounced as it might have been, but it was still enough for my brother to say to Mum in despair: do I have to look at David?

At seven years of age, I was probably overdue for spectacles by three or four years. In hindsight, it was abundantly clear to the family that I needed them. “Look at the parachutes!” they would say.
“Where, where?” I would wail, squinting up into the sky.

“Look at the gliders”, they would say.

“I can’t see them,” I would cry, in gathering exasperation.

I don’t recall any of this, I should say. Mum does, vividly and often, and unduly reproves herself. She was an exemplary mother. She missed almost nothing. She lavished us with the attention of a teacher who now had a special class of three. But it wasn't until I told her that I couldn't read the school blackboard unless I was sitting right at the front that the penny dropped.

The optician in Palmerston North was a nice man who took me into a darkened room twinkling with red and green lights like some kind of land-borne aeroplane cockpit.

Perhaps at the initial visit, perhaps a later one, Mum asked about contact lenses. He solemnly described the dreadful injuries he had seen done to the wearers of these things who had been in car crashes. It was a dreadful business picking tiny shards of glass from their eyes. Until I reached my twenties I settled for spectacles: square frames, German frames, round ones like John Lennon’s, but not achieving anything like that effect. Imagine. One pair was in the aviator style and was best worn by the kind of man who dried his hair with a machine.

You are doomed to repeat your parents oversights and omissions. Karren noticed the problem. Mary-Margaret said she had to sit at the front of the classroom to read the blackboard. Earlier tests at school had reported her hearing and vision to be fine, but Karren wondered if there might have been a change. It was time for another school holiday adventure.

She asked what would happen at the optometrist. Would it hurt? I reassured her. I described the aeroplane cockpit. She wondered if there might be eye drops. I told her there would not. She relaxed. I hoped for her sake that she might not need any correction. Glasses and lenses are a hassle. We thought it would be sad for her to obscure her pretty face.

We sat down in the surgery, the optometrist, Mary-Margaret and me and the test began. For the first time in 41 years I followed the progress of the letters on the chart with perfect vision, and I heard my own child’s voice reading out the letters, eager to oblige, but wildly awry. It’s a Y not an Q, It’s a Q, not a U. My heart ached.

He drew a disclosure from Mary-Margaret which she allowed with a guilty grin. She reads books under the cover at night when Mum and Dad think she’s asleep.

She can now do so with the aid of a very fetching pair of red spectacles. She chose them herself and counted the days until she could pick them up. She rang all her friends to alert them to the change they would be seeing. She fretted a little that the boys and the mean girls would tease her. The teacher astutely seized the teachable moment and encouraged the class to treat the kids with glasses with respect. The girls who already had them were thrilled with this and put their own ones back on.

Janet Digby is the manager of the See Here project. It was initiated by the JR McKenzie Trust and it asks the question: “What do we know about the state of our children's eyesight?” The answer is “not as much as we really ought to”.

The way we collect data about children who have trouble with their vision seems to be pretty loose, if not sparse.

There are programmes that screen and check our children's vision, but how well do they work, and what information and support do parents get if they’re told that their child needs help?

The project reports a less than perfect state of affairs.

There’s no process for tracking vision-impaired children( which in this context refers principally to the ones whose vision can be fully corrected with glasses).

There is no reliable way to establish whether children have received the help they need.

If your bureaucrat-intolerance has been set to high by the PM-in-waiting then stand by to be further disgruntled. The project recommends that an agency be made responsible for finding out how well the job of screening is being done. It recommends free screening for all children under 18. It also says the B4 School Check needs a good going over. There’s plenty of sensible stuff in there, and you can find it in a concise summary here.

We also learn from the report that being short-sighted tends to yield average or above average academic performance. That may well be so but I can testify that it does sweet bugger-all for your performance on a football field.