In matters of disbursement he was (to use an eighteenth century idiom) “monstrous gouty-handed."

The miner knew the old davy was safer than any open flame, but far riskier than a modern flashlight.

Since I am now a fully paid up member of the club, good manners behove me to desist from my Kiwi homonym phobia and so I wander around repeating to myself: ‘sheared, shared; cheery, cherry; steer, stair; Elliot, Alliot; Beard, Baird.’ My life would be easier if only I could cease spelling words in my head. ‘Clarence, Clarance.’

my bio family