ADVICE TO READERS

Yesterday my company’s Wellington director Sam Cooper and Wellington manager Aaron Leech, came out for lunch. They brought with them a massive pile of email letters, obviously from friends and the like, but primarily from strangers. These were mainly in response to my 13^th April piece on this site about the total mishandling of the virus by the government and its consequences.

I appreciate readers’ comments and will in due course acknowledge them. However, note this.

I do not have (nor want) a cell-phone. I handwrite everything and a typist types it. As an aside that has been increasingly difficult in recent years as the average young girl these days tends to be a stranger to the written word.

I solved that problem by having the office seek some middle-aged women, a policy that has been a huge success on every front but one. That is that unlike younger girls, the buggers aren’t gullible and instantly see through piss-takes.

Young girls in their early 20s are designed to be trusting and gullible. That is nature’s way of ensuring the continuation of the species.

About 20 years back I gave a speech on this topic, specifically the trials of being a single bloke in pre-pill New Zealand. This was before an Auckland luncheon of 700 plus, mainly middle-aged professionals and their wives.

As I was getting around and about in those staid days, I pointed out how I solved the problem. One could either go to Southland and take girls pants down and they didn’t notice.

But better still, I observed, one could go to Auckland in which typical of that city’s ever present generous spirit, the girls took their pants down for you.

From memory there were about 250 middle-aged women present. All rose at my request and to a standing ovation, took a bow.

That of course is no longer an issue but young girls in other respects are still bloody gullible.

For example, our girls monitor the situation whenever a new receptionist is employed. As soon as one of the chaps goes out, one of them promptly calls our lawyer David Butler. She does no more than say the departee’s name. David, knowing the ropes then swings into action, telephones and asks for him. The new receptionist advises he’s out and David leaves a message. That’s always the same, namely please have him call the Penis Enlargement Centre re his next appointment.

The new girl writes this out and red-faced, hands it to the absentee on his return.

The girls usually let the new lass stew for 15 minutes before spilling the beans. Champagne comes out and she’s formally welcomed into the job and the prevailing spirit.

And talking of David Butler, just as my partner brought a fifth bottle of wine into the library where we were sitting, who should barge in but Butler no less, with his wife Joy and what appeared to be a squirrel. This Joy insisted was a dog, an improbable story.

More pertinent they’d been to a doctor for David to be stitched up. The right side of his face was all plastered and bandaged.

It transpired he’d conquered pole-vaulting over the shoe-box placed horizontal on the ground five out of five attempts, then had a crack at it standing on its end. The result; a disaster.

I blame the ridiculous ill-thought lockdown. It’s clearly inducing impatience.