It's raining in my head

Interesting times

The view from our hideaway as the rain comes down.

It’s dreary out. The region is undergoing its third big rain event in a month.

For many, it may be the last straw, but we haven’t been affected as far as we know. Maybe the Maitai river is in flood and our house is threatened, but I think we’d have heard.

We chose to have a temporary escape to the sounds and we’ve spent the last couple of days reading and watching bike races on TV. The Tour de France is over, but the Tour de France Femmes has begun.

We put on our gumboots and raincoats and splashed down to the jetty early this afternoon. It made us appreciate our warm shelter even more.

The smell of roast chicken is in the air. Vegetables have just been added and there’s sure to be a thick, rich gravy - and some greens, of course.

I haven’t yet decided between brussels sprouts, cauliflower or broccoli.

We should be at home working in the pottery. It’s just over a fortnight since we got home from Europe and a lot has happened.

In May we flew away, leaving a kiln that wasn’t working. Another new element was needed and they take two months to arrive from the states.

It was there when we got home, so we had it installed quickly, stacked the kiln and switched it on.

Four hours later, something blew.

We’d told that kiln, “this is your last chance, let us down one more time and you’re out”.

It did, and it was.

The next day we were on the phone ordering a new kiln from a supplier in Auckland. Five days later, it arrived.

It looks very industrial.

But it works perfectly.

I’ve had a long history with kilns.

More than 50 years ago I built my first large brick kiln in the back garden of my house in Murray’s Bay, Auckland. It fired with diesel oil which was blasted in with two old vacuum cleaners.

In Golden Bay in 1975 an even bigger kiln operated the same way - four vacuum cleaners blowing like crazy to bring up 1300 degrees.

In Waimea West in 1979, the fuel changed to wood and the kilns got even bigger.

There was never a way to tell the temperature, or whether the temperature was rising or falling. It was all done on instinct and a learned knowledge of what colour in the kiln meant, from red, to yellow, to white.

The conclusion was decided by looking through spy holes at pyrometric cones, standing in a line in the white heat, viewed through dark glasses or a narrow opening formed between the finger and thumb of your right hand.

The new kiln is something else. Pre-programmed schedules take the kiln up to temperature as fast or as slow as you want - or you can design your own. The readout from the pyrometer tells you exactly what’s happening, not that you need to intervene, once the start button is pressed, human intervention is redundant.

I chose a schedule that looked right - and it was. It said it would take 9 ½ hours and it did.

We had a backlog of pots - enough for three firings.

We had some great results. Now the workshop shelves are bare.

I should be out there making pots like crazy, but something else happened.

At the start of last week we got back in the pool with our friendly little squad in the slow lane.

On the third session, last Friday, the act of turning to breathe suddenly started to become painful low down on the right of my back, just above the hips. It seemed unlikely. Swimming is supposed to be good for your back.

On Saturday, before we went to the pool, I did a couple of stretches and it was excruciating. Something was wrong with my lower back. I couldn’t imagine what had caused it. I have a short memory.

On Monday I went for some physio. The therapist, Kelly, was scandalised by how inflexible I was. Even I had to admit that for a tight person I seemed to be breaking new ground. She couldn’t believe we’d just walked 400km with those hips and back.

She told me to give my back a break and stay away from crouching over a pottery wheel for a few days. Although she did suggest gentle swimming might be ok (it’s not).

That’s why we finished up here in the sounds yesterday. If we couldn’t make pots and couldn’t go swimming, we’d have a restful time.

Last night in bed, I had to hook my leg over the edge to give me enough leverage to roll over and that reminded me of precisely the same feeling and the same nocturnal operation back in March.

That was when I fell from a great height on to a concrete jetty, landing on my right side.

I was x-rayed then, but there was no bone damage. I assumed it would all come right thanks to my miraculous powers of recovery. Apparently not. It seems to have come back to haunt me.

Kelly had the temerity to suggest that thanks to my old age I may like to consider that at some time in the future I may have to consider a hip replacement.

It was my turn to be scandalised. Such a thing was never on my radar and I believe it never will be. In any case, since waiting lists at Nelson Hospital are among the worst in the country, I doubt there’s much chance it would ever happen.

In the meantime, I’m happy to have been given a leave pass to have a break from almost everything. Except stretches.

I seem to be on a hiding to nothing with those. I’m so tight that even small stretches hurt. Forget lying on the floor and doing gentle routines. I tried that this morning and couldn’t get myself vertical again. Cathie gently helped me off the ground. Where would I be without her?

This is all very self-piteous. As an observer, I find it entertaining. I’ve never considered growing old, except as an abstract proposition.

This may take some readjustment, but I’m not yet mentally prepared for all this.

It seems there’s an interesting period ahead.