THE ODD ANGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXV, Issue 290, 7 December 1944, Page 4

THE ODD ANGLE

By MacCLURE • UNSOPHISTICATED Occasionally I meet a citizen of that simpler world we used to live in "prior to Pearl Harbour"—an odd phrase, perhaps, when analysed critically in the light of the strict grammarian, but one with a wealth of meaning, signifying as it does a date on which the entire globe was transformed into two hostile camps, and its combined resources mobilised i for defence and offence. In that simpler world that existed the day before those first Jap bombs fell you and I, with an expert knowledge of war strategy, stuck coloured pins into the war maps, breathlessly followed each 8.8.C. bulletin, hung on to every word of Peter's many longwinded orations, contributed generously to patriotic collections, and even found time to do something for, or write to, the boys overseas. The war had only been going a little over two years and we were keen; keen enough, at any rate, to encourage our youths to go and "clean up Hitler" for us and to play "Roll Out the Barrel" on the gramophone —even to join in the chorus. And to roll up at the station to welcome "the boys" on their arrival home.

• ENZED'S NEW ERA And then, all of a sudden, starting with "Pearl Harbour," we found ourselves pitchforked right into the war—almost; and for the next two full years had it on our doorstep— almost. Looking back to that, seemingly, far distant date, December the Seventh, 1941, an incredible number of even more incredible happenings crowd the memory. First, came the Yank influx upon our Homeland and the, temporary, Americanisation of this land. Following came that inflation which, affecting everyone in turn, is creating a series of nightmares, envy, malice, and evil of every kind. And with it, too, came '< manpowering measures, more State incursions into private enterprise, great or dictatorial powers to our legislators, less freedom, more bureaucracy, increased censorship, a marked decrease in the electors' confidence in those of his own election, increased national disunity, an increase in industrial disputes, less consumable goods to select from, more family bickerings, public unrest, a deluge of divorces, with, all the time, vandalism on the increase, and other disputes. The simple days when Nellie sta3 r ed home and played draughts had gone. Phew! It does seem an age ago, doesn't it? And— Nellie doesn't live here any more. She is (so she says) a "Kiwi"; and, unlike our native bird, she's flown. • FIVE THIRTEENS

And, speaking of "birds of the bush," let me tell you of Old Alf's latest carrying-on. A city man himself, I never dreamt he had ideas of deserting us for the wide open spaces. Last weekend, though, I received a huge shock. Came a solicitor's letter—the section he'd bought (at one of our beaches) was "going through" all right, and would he call—just a matter of a couple of signatures. And with that Alf showed me half a dozen volumes he'd bought at a book sale, all on agriculture. Besides this he had acquired a cartload of "agricultural instruments"—a spade, a grubber, a grass hook and a pick. Tremblingly I accompanied him to the aforesaid section—somewhere about a quarter of an acre, mostly gorse. On the bank sat an old Digger neighbour. "What you'll need is a boat," he assured Alfred. "They have been selling them sections by the gallon all through the winter." "Don't take no notice of him," Old Alf whispered as he tackled a forest of gorse 15ft high. "You remember him—he was a sergeant in our outfit." The sei< geant, however, refused to be ignored. "You don't want to start building nothing till you've got a permit from the Town Board. They re a lot of cows—l've been up agin 'em this past ten years. It's all right if you can give them a backhander—grease their palms—if not you're a gone coon—you'll never get no permit. Not even a tent," he shouted, as we moved away to avoid contagion. "Who wants to live in a tent, anyway?" Old Alf snorted, and he immediately proceeded to show me the plans of a ten-rcomed "shack" he intended building. "When?" I queried in amazement. He showed me the last art union ticket he'd bought. "Remember what the dustman's auntie told us?" he asked. I should have known it. But I had to admit the number of the ticket contained, as she had prophesied, "five thirteens." Meanwhile I prefer to wait and see.