Will work for good cause and money.

OK, I'm on the lookout for work. No wait. Now I think about it, I'm on the lookout for money, and if I have to work for it, well so be it. I'm not proud.

Fact is, I'm superfluous to the business I've been working in for the last 3-4 years, part of my job was to automate things & reduce overheads.

I did that part really well - I have saved the business a whacking $8k a month. Not counting my salary!

But actually, what it is, is I have time on my hands right now, and what better way to use that time than by making money!

But here's the rub: the thought of returning to an 8-5 corporate IT job just kills my soul. I've applied for a few, had a few interviews, and have completely failed to find any enthusiasm for the process at all. Mrs Llew recognises this & is very, very supportive.

I've pottered around the orchard, marketed a few nuts (not enough to sustain the lifestyle to which I am accustomed though - we don't have enough nuts, I mean, to give up the day job, so to speak).

This is not to say I've been idle, around sundry parts of the lower North Island I have variously: trimmed, cut & chopped; scraped, sanded back, filled and painted (although Mrs Llew has heroically painted also); dug and planted many varieties of tree; concreted and mortared; lifted lino and hardboard; arranged sanders and polishers, and telecom and electricians; moved beds, chairs, chests of drawers, TV cabinets and a HUGE old TV back and forth around the country; listened to weeks of Radio NZ, and hours of Timeless Hits; and sprayed dangerous chemicals over fruit trees.

And I must say I found that last one a little disagreeable, and I will shortly do a Handling Hazardous Chemicals certificate and get much better headwear than the mask and goggles I own (thesxe are chemical strength & good quality, but I feel I need sturdier headwear than that, something like a sou'wester with eyeholes perhaps).

I've done some writing, but have neglected all the blogs to which I supposedly contribute, have hardly commented anywhere at all... but I do draw the line at waking at noon & wandering aimlessly around the house in my pyjamas. In fact, I don't own any pyjamas anyway. I also never turn on the TV before the evening news, if then.

Mrs Llew playfully suggested I may be going through my mid life crisis. "Hello" I said, "Do you see a '68 Mustang ragtop outside, and/or a hot 25 year old? That's clearly not the case."

Women have no idea atr all how to conduct an enthusiastic mid life crisis.

So what to do....? I saw a cute seeing eye puppy today, it was in a MacDonalds, heroically trying not to react to the smell of food, not an easy task for a labrador pup - I thought that might be a really cool career - bringing one up I mean, not being one. I suspect that's a voluntary thing though.

Or a professional poker player. That would also be cool. I wonder if I'm any good at it.

I'll take suggestions if anyone can be bothered, I'm thinking laterally, something worthwhile & enjoyable, possibly something part time, not necessarily something that pays megabucks, you can take it as given that I won't be retraining to be a lawyer or anything. And don't email me any job descriptions for IT manager for an insurance firm OK?

You don’t need a fiscal stimulus if you’ve got Jesus

Heh. Words of Wisdom from Chase me ladies, I'm in the cavalry.

One of the things about living between two houses is that you often find yourself moving furniture between one or the other, then, when something changes (like the impending arrival of someone to stay for a year or so) you move it all back.

So yesterday, I was in a borrowed Toyota van, moving a double bed back into town, and a single bed, and sundry other items, back up the coast.

Someone else's car can tell you lots about the owner: it may be messy, or pristine, full of ciggie butts, or other odds & ends, but the most joy by far, is to listen to someone else's choice of radio channel.

I'd change the station, but last time I did that with this van, I'd failed to notice which frequency I'd started off with, and it was mentioned to me that leaving the dial on Radio NZ was not appreciated.

So yesterday I decided to leave the station as was & I tootled into town to the strains of variously:

Bend It - Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Titch
12 Steps to Love - The Tremeloes
I Write the Songs - The Guy Who Wrote the Songs
Something by Dean Martin that I didn't recognise

I misted over slightly at that Pony She Named Wildfire, I marveled that it had been a long time since I'd heard Jonothan Livingston Seagull (and I have now renamed one of the characters in my nascent novel, Jonathon Livingston Segal).

At Pukerua Bay, Michael Jackson's Ben* segued perfectly into something by Roberta Flack & the rest of the trip was spent with Mana FM, who seem to specialise in Motown funk & R&B.

On arriving home, I told Mrs Llew that I wasn't sure what was scarier, the steering or the radio station. Mrs Llew revealed she'd made a passing comment to the van's owner a few days ago, about the singer Pink. The van owner asked "Who?"

On the return trip, the Supremes on Mana FM sputtered once, and morphed into a Jackson song so heinous, that my mind had blocked it out until now & channels I tuned into pretty much deny its existence, no mean feat for a Jackson song at this time - The Girl is Mine (The Girl is Nine?), a feeble duet with Paul McCartney. He was a lover, not a fighter, apparently.

I endured ABBA's Dancing Queen, Queen's Another One Bites the Dust, Buddy Holly's Oh Boy, The Streak by Ray Stevens, and surprisingly, Hello Sailor's Blue Lady followed by Midnight Oil's Power and the Passion..

I warbled along to It Never Rains in California, Roy Orbison Crying, and gritted my teeth to Sir Cliff's Devil Woman.

I didn't catch the station's name, but much mention was made of "Timeless Hits", for which the cutoff date seems to be around 1975.

* A quick word at David Gest, who hosted an MTV show of MJ's 40 "Greatest" videos the other night on TV, Ben was not a song Jackson wrote about his pet rat, it was the theme to the 1971 movie Willard, a mediocre schlocker about a guy with a rat called Ben, whose friendship goes horribly wrong.