Hearty Laughter

A new health study claims that over our lifetime we have an expendable amount of energy and that using it to exercise is wrong. It comes from two German medical professionals, father and daughter, Peter Axt and Michaela Axt-Gadermann. Their findings have been greeted with scepticism in some quarters. However, my sixty-year-old friend, who has spent a lifetime living every spare moment like a couch potato, went into raptures when I told him the news. He had been vindicated, he said.

The medics claim that relaxing the body allows the metabolism to be less active, with the result that it produces fewer nasty free radicals which are guilty of speeding the aging process.

In place of exercise they recommend laughter, lots of it, which apparently stimulates the relaxing hormone, serotonin. They argue that having a good belly laugh is better for longevity than physical jerks and, if you disregard the painful stitch, and the occasional wet knickers, laughter produces no unpleasant side effects. The Germans have written a book, ‘The Joy of Laziness’, which explains all.

Before this latest Teutonic wisdom was published, my overweight friend, at the behest of his employer, visited his GP for a late middle-age check up. In the pub at lunchtime, shortly before his afternoon appointment, he said he felt fine and expected no nasty surprises from the doctor. He was confident of receiving an assurance that his death was not imminent.

It turned out the GP was less optimistic. Telling my friend that he was carrying thirty kilos more than was necessary for a man of his height, the doctor suggested that long life could best be achieved by leading a good lifestyle. The patient was immediately cheered by this news and became quite animated, telling the doctor that a good lifestyle was exactly what he had! He explained that he’d recently acquired a few acres of olives and grazing on the edge of town, together with a comfortable house, a rambling terrace with pizza oven, a barbeque and drinks bar, and a croquet lawn to show off to sports minded visitors. His lifestyle was better than good, it was abundant!

Language, unless used with care, can lead to misunderstandings as my friend then discovered. The doctor, ignoring his patient’s enthusiasm about his property, explained with a grimace that by good he meant healthy, as in lettuce, carrots, no booze and plenty of exercise. My friend’s face went blank with shock, and as he struggled to comprehend the warning he thought he heard the doctor call him a ‘fat bastard’. Asked to repeat the insult, the doctor said, ‘it’s a real bastard when you’re fat.’ This brought my friend, who only the week before had paid his tailor to install expandable waist-line gussets in all his trousers, back to earth with a squelch.

Reeling at the direction the check-up was taking, he tried to concentrate while the doctor explained that without exercise and running about a lot, one could fetch up with something nasty in the cardiac department. Seeing his patient’s worried face and realising he hadn’t understood a word, the doctor described simply why producing too many free radicals was a threat to good health. They are unstable oxygen molecules, he said, that contain at least one unpaired electron, and are responsible for speeding the aging process including tissue damage and diseases like atherosclerosis and Alzheimer’s.

The doctor went on to personalise his talk, saying that my friend’s indolent lifestyle was permitting those free radicals to run rampant and were causing his blood pressure and cholesterol to hover in the red alert zone! It’s time to rise from the couch and take regular exercise, starting now! Clearly, the doctor had not read ‘The Joy of Laziness’ either.

My friend left the surgery with the doctor’s warnings buzzing in his head. The prospect of taking exercise struck terror in his gummed up heart. For several days he mooched around at home, rarely leaving the couch and feeling miserable. A week later he was desperate to go to the pub. He wondered if he dare leave the car at home and trot. Impossible! Instead, he power-walked, and stuck out his elbows in the style of a fitness fanatic.

I saw him walking like this early one evening and he apologised for looking a dork. He told me about the visit to the doctor and the dire warnings. It’s this or die he said miserably. Then I grinned and told him about the latest research from Germany. They have a radical solution to reducing free radicals and lengthening your life, I said, and you don’t have to go to the gym. All you have to do is laugh. The Germans say exercise is bad, laughing is good. Follow their advice and you can enjoy being a couch potato for as long as you want, just remember to laugh now and then!

And so my friend developed a big, hearty life-saving style of laughing and for a while I was pleased to see him happy. For months every time we met he laughed and laughed, always for no apparent reason, until it got on my nerves and I tried to avoid him. Only when he saw another fat person looking miserable did his laughter seem genuine, and then he nearly choked. Perhaps I should tell him that the British Medical Association was sceptical about the German claim and that he should pack up laughing and do some moderate exercise instead. And I will if he carries on like this.

Adapted from an article that first appeared in the Gisborne Herald in 2005.

Frogs and Climate Change

Two summers ago all the frogs in our garden died. There were plenty, spread between two small lily ponds and areas of damp among the agapanthus.

They were not special frogs, neither native nor protected, but all were from the imported species called southern bell. Experts say they are common and not as interesting as New Zealand’s shy, native varieties.

Nevertheless, losing them was painful. At first we found just two or three, badly discoloured and shrivelling, floating dead on the water. Soon, more bodies appeared until eventually several dozen dead frogs littered our once peaceful water havens like the aftermath of a great battle.

Strangely, the fish in the ponds seemed to know something was wrong, as if they sensed danger in their shared habitat. For a while they went to ground, as if to escape some plague, or perhaps they were in mourning.

We wanted to know why the frogs had suddenly all died. University websites offered several explanations as to why frogs die en masse. Chemicals, poisonous to frogs, washed into waterways from farms; global warming was a possibility, or perhaps a new unidentified virus. There were none we could do anything about.

The frogs had been integral to our summertime enjoyment, their presence part of the sublime pastoral whole that made our garden a paradise. Lily pads, once happily occupied by frogs just as humans use sun-loungers, became no more than floating leaves. We missed their bulging eyes peeping through the surface of the water following our every move. And we missed their croaking, the mating season call that was an essential contributor to nature’s orchestra. We loved the calm, sunny days listening to the melodies and harmonies of all garden creatures, music to the human ear. Add to the frogs’ rhythmic croak, the click of cicadas, the buzz of bees, the cries, squeaks and squawks of kingfishers, magpies and Indian myna birds, the sweet chatter of fantails and the drunken banter of tuis, and all together we had free live entertainment of the most therapeutic kind. Two summers ago, without the frogs, that changed.

The following summer we hoped the frogs may miraculously return to the ponds. But they didn’t come. Lily pads opened but were never occupied. The fish seemed lonely and unsure. Nature’s orchestra played, but without the rhythm section to hold it together it was just noise. It was a disheartening summer and it felt as if the garden had started to decay.

That winter during the long, dark evenings, we read more scientific evidence about the changes taking place in the animal kingdom. Based on collaborative research headed by Leeds University, scientists warned that global warming threatened to kill a million species of plant and animal life by 2050. Their findings, published in Nature magazine, claimed that continuous discharge of greenhouse gases, particularly by the United States, was making the problem worse.

Our attention was drawn to the work being carried out by two Costa Rican scientists who, since 1980, have been studying the causes of the extinction of many frog species. Their conclusions point to climate change as the major reason. They also say that estimates of one million plant and animal species dying out by 2050 are optimistically low.

If these scientific warnings are correct, by 2050 the planet will be well on the way to self-destructing. At what point in Earth’s decline will people begin to perish in large numbers too? Has that process already begun? Can we accurately forecast when all life on Earth will cease to exist? These are the big questions that demand answers, and until we are prepared to face them honestly we cannot begin to plan for survival.

However, the immediate problem that is preventing progress on climate change is that society continues to huff and puff about whether or not there is an issue to be addressed. We could all die waiting.

This summer we had good news. Unexpectedly, frogs returned to the ponds. Suddenly they were there, sunning themselves on the lily pads, winking and croaking, no explanation for their absence given. Life in the garden has returned to normal, at least, what we think of as normal. And I suppose we should make the most of it while we can.

This article originally appeared in the New Zealand Herald, February 2004

Hard Times

In the past week I have made several failed attempts to read Charles Dickens’ novel, Hard Times. Due to lack of concentration I had got no further than Thomas Gradgrind’s opening speeches in which he reminds the schoolmaster that the children in his school are to be taught nothing but Facts.

“You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of service to them. Stick to Facts!”

There were certain facts, and reasons, behind why my reading lapsed. The first fact was that starting my new book coincided with a serious weather event on the east coast of the North Island. The second fact is that I live in near isolation deep in a beautiful valley some thirty-five kilometres from my place of work in the city. Worst of all were the facts that I chose to ignore which nearly cost me my life and several other inconveniences.

It began raining steadily at Friday lunchtime, a southerly. That night I slipped into bed eagerly anticipating the beginning of Dickens’ shortest novel. The rain hadn’t stopped and pounded in windblown sheets on the tin roof of the house, loud enough to drown the ticking of my old-fashioned bedside clock. As someone who needs silence when reading, I put the book aside and tried to sleep. Waking the next morning I realised for one blissful moment that it was Saturday, no work. But my euphoria was short-lived. Through the gap in the curtains I saw an inky black sky and the rain, now arriving from the east, was lashing the window with the power of a car wash. I calculated that it had been raining for twenty hours.

After breakfast I braved the elements and went to feed the chooks. There had been no let up during the night. Taking two steps forward and one step back I scrambled up the slope to their enclosure. For once the chooks didn’t appear from their dry shelter, preferring hunger to risking life and limb.

In the afternoon, with little else I could usefully do, I picked up Hard Times, and with the cat purring happily on my lap, we both decided to sit out the storm. However, before I got to the end of the first chapter the wind velocity had stepped up to howling point. Looking outside I saw that trees were bending almost double in surrender and those close to the house were banging ominously on the roof. I threw down the book in frustration, how could I possibly concentrate on Gradgrind’s theories of education in weather like this? I decided to do nothing and lay on the sofa listening to my house being beaten to a pulp and thinking miserably that I was on the road to perdition.

Early evening, as darkness fell, the electricity began to flicker then died altogether. My all electric kitchen had been rendered useless and I was hungry. Thank goodness for the barbeque out on the covered veranda. I left it for as long as my rumbling stomach allowed, waiting for the rain and wind to ease. It didn’t and so I climbed into waterproofs and went outside to cook. Waiting for the pots to boil I picked up Hard Times yet again. Gradgrind was still extolling the virtue of cramming young minds with Facts. But it was no good; his words blew away in the storm. I was having hard times all of my own.

On Sunday I awoke with a pounding headache, the result of a fitful sleep listening to the racket caused by endless wind and rain hammering on the bedroom window. I needed to get outside and clear my head. How long was it now, forty-four hours? An hour later I took the plunge and went outside. Broken branches lay everywhere, the garden looked like a battleground. The roses that a few days ago were smiling happily had turned to brown mush, a bit like life itself.

Monday morning dawned, a work day. The wind had abated but the rain persisted. Driving to the city I was greeted by shallow floods from over spilled culverts and water racing across the roads. In places fallen branches and thick mud slowed my progress but eventually I made it to my place of work. It was a relief to be there and to think about something other than foul weather.

It rained lightly but steadily all morning but I ignored it and concentrated on my work. The events of the ghastly weekend were behind me. At noon I received a phone call from a neighbour in my valley. She gave me some facts. The rain had been exceptionally heavy this morning, she said, and the valley was turning into one vast lake. Roads have completely disappeared under water; conditions are treacherous and getting worse. Your house is in danger of flooding; you must come home now before it’s too late.

I ignored her warning. I looked outside and saw a patch of blue sky over the city. The rain was moving on; it’ll be fine in the valley. So at lunchtime I opened Hard Times once more and put my feet up. And with my mind free of worry, began reading where I’d left off.

My neighbour phoned again at four-thirty. Hadn’t I left yet, she asked, her voice almost a scream, didn’t I understand the danger? My pulse began to race, perhaps she really was telling me something, some cold facts that I should act upon. I yelled to my boss that I was off and jumped in the car.

Twenty kilometres from the city I hit flood water that deepened quickly. First it reached the hub caps, then submerged the wheels and finally washed over the bonnet. The engine spluttered and coughed. I had another fifteen kilometres to go. Around me the highway, ditches and paddocks had merged into one vast lake as far as I could see. Ahead, even fences had vanished beneath the water. Broken posts, tree branches and rubbish rushed past on an angry tide of destruction. I was alone, there was no other traffic in sight and that added to my growing sense of danger.

There was no way forward, only a hasty retreat would save me. Cautiously I turned the car around knowing that on both sides of the road, somewhere invisibly close by, were deep culverts. Had I driven into one, the car and I would have disappeared. Out of the worst, and driving back to the city with the engine stuttering and backfiring, I cursed my stupidity at not heeding the warnings.

By the time I arrived it was getting late. I purchased a pair of underpants, a shirt and toothbrush and, not wanting to trouble friends and colleagues at this hour, booked into a motel, at a cost that exceeded my day’s wages. During the night the rain stopped. After work the next day I telephoned my neighbour in the valley for a report on the state of the road. It was okay with caution, she said.

Arriving home Tuesday evening I popped a package meal in the microwave and flopped into an armchair with Hard Times. The weather was calm and the relief I felt was palpable, even to the cat. The house had escaped the worst of the flooding and I had escaped with my life. This time I had been lucky. Mr Gradgrind was right, Facts are important. I should have listened to the Facts as told to me by my neighbour and come home earlier. They were a warning and as a reasoning animal I should have reasoned better.

John Darkin

This is an expanded version of a Gisborne Herald article from 2005.

Conversations with a Bird - A Short Story

I was getting conflicting messages, in stereo. On one side my daughter Mary was giving me grief, urging me to give up the house and the one acre garden. In the other ear that pesky little bird who thinks he knows better than me and acts like my superior, was chattering nonstop and being contradictory.

The three of us were sitting on the shaded veranda, Mary and I in cane chairs, drinking lemonade, the bird on the beam above our heads. We were relieved to be out of the blazing afternoon sun. I had been mowing the lawns all morning and was ready for a break.

“Does that fantail ever stop twittering?” Mary asked, waving an arm to scare it off. The bird ignored her.

“It does have a lot to say,” I agreed. “He comes every day, I’ve got used to it.”

I wasn’t going to admit that the bird and I have conversations; Mary would really think I’d lost it. She gave up trying to silence it. “It’s too hot,” she sighed. Then a moment later she turned to me, her voice firm and decisive, like the school teacher she was.

“It’s too much Dad; since Mum died you’ve been doing everything, and for what?”

She’d said it all before and I listened patiently, hoping she realised how much I appreciated her concerns. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful.

“Sell up, come to Auckland. Brian and I could help find you a nice little flat, not too far from the waterfront if that’s what you want.”

Above us the nosey piwakawaka fell silent. I knew what it was thinking, that the countryside was my life, not the grinding city.

“You’d hate all those people, not to mention the traffic and the pollution,” I sensed the bird wanted an argument. It flicked its fanned tail from side to side in agitation.

“You’d soon love it up there,” Mary said encouragingly, “get you a new little town car, meet new people.”

“Unnatural noise day and night, no sweet sounds of nature there,” the bird persisted in my ear.

“Noisy it is here too,” I snapped loudly, waving a fist at the bird on the beam. I wasn’t going to be told what to think by a know-all bird.

“Especially when you bring your mates in the house and they all shout at once. And what about the racket the wild turkeys make, enough to frighten the chooks and put them off laying!”

The fantail turned his back and spread its tail; I recognised the signs of petulance.

“Dad, what are you saying, I didn’t mention noise? Whose mates are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?”

Mary had gone pale and came to kneel by my chair. She took my hand, her face twisted with concern. I couldn’t explain my relationship with the bird.

“Stay with us until you find the right place,” Mary suggested when she had regained her composure. I was surprised she said that. I doubt whether she had discussed that with Brian, he’ll be shocked; we weren’t the best of friends.

Above my head the piwakawaka made a sudden squawk, like a burst of laughter.

“I can’t see you lasting long in the same house as him, especially with his taste in music. You only tolerate him because he’s Mary’s husband.”  

“Isn’t it time you got going?” I said, getting to my feet and looking at my watch. Thank God she can’t hear the bird, I thought.

“You don’t want to get snarled up in the traffic. Perhaps we could talk about this another time. I’ll come up to Auckland one weekend, take a look around.”

After she left I shouted at the bird to stay out of my business.

“If I go to live in Auckland it’ll be to get away from you, and I’ll be the one to decide, when I’m good and ready!”

                                                                 ********

I woke up the next morning thinking about what Mary had said. The truth is, she is right; keeping up this large house and the grounds is becoming a strain. And hearing me talking to the fantail didn’t help; she’ll think I’ve lost my marbles. I haven’t mentioned it to her but a few months ago I was cutting down a tree which fell on my arm, my fault, I wasn’t taking enough care. The doctor said nothing was broken but the trauma has set off painful arthritis in the elbow and I can no longer handle the chainsaw. Luckily winter’s a few months away so I won’t need firewood yet.

Lying in bed, trying to summon up the energy to get dressed, I thought about Susan who had died suddenly two years ago. Since then I’ve neglected her beloved flowerbeds. The weeds have smothered the herbaceous borders and killed them off. Worse, the roses Susan was so proud of I’ve never pruned. I’ve let her down but I can’t bring myself to do anything about it, can’t explain why.

Leaving here would mean giving up the familiar. The trouble is Susan and I spent all our married lives in this house, Mary was born here, so too Simon and Mark. Before Susan died all five grandchildren used to stay for the summer, now their parents say it would be too much for granddad to manage the children without help. Perhaps they’re right.

When we were young and first married, Susan and I often talked about the future. It seemed indefinable, mysterious, like imagining deep space and getting nowhere. No end in sight. We laughed at Paul McCartney asking if he would still be needed when he was sixty-four.

Hell, we’d both be dead by then.

Susan was well past that age when she died and yes, I still need her.

And when she died I knew the future had arrived and sooner or later I would follow.

The question is whether I can face the time that is left, however brief, without her and without my familiar surroundings.  Bad enough that I awake every morning alone but add to that waking in a strange room and I’m not sure I’d get through the day. And that is my problem, it will happen one day, that slide into oblivion, but when?   

I took my morning coffee onto the veranda, another warm day and just a slight cooling breeze. It’s been an endless summer, quite beautiful. Across the steep-sided valley I watched the neighbour’s bulls in their paddock. They were ambling, head down, searching for the choicest grass, looking content. Yesterday they were introduced to some new cows and during the night I heard them roaring in ecstasy. Another sound I should miss.

Susan and I spent many hours sitting on the veranda. From its elevated position it was our window on the world, our special place. We talked about the garden or the grandchildren’s birthday presents, or the latest terrible injustice, or about the book one of us had just finished reading.

I was pondering these memories when the fantail arrived and perched boldly on the railing less than one metre away. He prefers it when I’m alone, no doubt believing he can control my thoughts better.   

 “Well, have you decided?” he demanded.

 “Not yet,” I retorted, “please don’t go on about moving.”

 “Shouldn’t you be in the veggie patch, the weeds are waist high?”

 “Yes, I know, I’ll just finish my coffee and get started.”

 “And the driveway needs gravel in the potholes.”

 “Yes, thank you bird, I know.”

 “And the chicken house needs cleaning out, it stinks.”

 “Yes, I’ve only got one pair of hands!”

 “You don’t want Mary thinking you can’t manage.”

 “Yes, all right, don’t go on,” I snapped.

Hoping to escape the fantail, I went to the veggie garden. I sank slowly onto the kneeler, head down, backside up and started poking around at the weeds. They’re growing faster this year, don’t know why, it’s been dry. Slowly I moved around the plot, leaning between the rows of carrots and leeks and onions. I began to feel dizzy; my head was too close to the ground. I tried to stand up. The last thing I remembered was seeing the fantail perched on the fork handle stuck in the ground nearby.

“Don’t let Mary see you like that,” he warned.

                                                                 Bending my ear



“Are you all right, can you hear me?” A voice I did not instantly recognise. I tasted earth in my mouth and there was a clump of it in my ear.

“You fell into the veggies,” said the voice. Looking up I recognised the postie’s uniform.

“Do you need an ambulance, or shall I get a doctor?”

My head felt woozy, if I could only stand or sit up.

“No, I’ll be fine, just help me to my feet please.”

The postie was a kind man and half carried me indoors and put me on a chair in the kitchen.

“Cup of tea?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes.”

“What about a doctor?”

“No, I’m feeling better now, just a funny turn.”

 After he went I cleaned myself up and took the post out to the chair on the veranda. I needed to rest. The fantail was waiting, shaking his head, no doubt disappointed at my show of weakness.

 “You’ll have to do better than that,” he scolded. “If Mary discovers what happened, you’ll be out of here in a flash and living in a tiny box in Auckland.”

“Well she’s not going to find out, is she?”

I was angry, not at the fantail who might think he knows best, but at myself for forgetting to put on a sun hat in the garden.

But the bird was right of course, if I couldn’t do the simple things I’d soon be in trouble. I need to knuckle down and prove I could manage on my own.

“How will you do that, you’re not in the flush of youth?” The fantail had read my thoughts.

“In my world, when a bird gets too old to build a nest or nurture its young, it goes away somewhere to die.”

 “Is that what you think I should do, desert the nest and go to Auckland and die?”

 “At least Mary and what’s his name will be close by, you won’t be alone.”

 “You’ve changed your tune, yesterday you were warning me off moving. God you’re so indecisive!”

I went to bed early that night but didn’t sleep; my mind kept dwelling on why I had collapsed in the garden and if it would happen again? I couldn’t rely on the postie always arriving in the nick of time to stand me up.

Eventually I slept and the next morning I remembered the mail from the today before. There was a large, fat envelope postmarked Auckland and inside I found a wodge of property details from a real estate agent. There was a note from Mary – just for info it read, in case you change your mind.



I threw the envelope on the kitchen table. Things were moving too fast, first Mary, now the fantail, both telling me to abandon ship. After breakfast, which I hadn’t touched, I went to the veranda and flopped down in the chair. I was tired already.

Before long the inquisitive fantail arrived and perched on the rail. Its normally strident voice was muted for a change, as if he knew that today a momentous decision would be made and he was respecting the occasion.

“I’ll miss you of course,” he chirped at length, breaking into my thoughts.

“What makes you think...?”



 “You’ll have to find another bird to share your worries when you get to Auckland. Seagulls aren’t shy, just don’t leave your lunch lying around.”



The fantail was ahead of me, he was certain what my decision must be, that it was time to give up this house. I hoped that Susan would understand. I breathed a long sigh of relief. Moving wouldn’t be the end of the world, I’d get used to it.

That afternoon I telephoned Mary.

“Are you okay Dad, your voice is croaky?”

“I’m fine my darling, I was wondering if I could come up and stay this weekend?”

“Yes, of course, that would be wonderful. Did you get the agent’s details?”

“Thanks, some of the apartments look reasonable. I was thinking I might have a closer look.”

“That’s good news Dad; I’m so pleased you’re ready to sell up the old house.”

“No promises mind, it all depends how I get on in a city.”

“Of course, I un derstand. I’m sure you’ll love it, there’s so much to do, lots of bowling clubs, third age groups, bridge afternoons. I’ll make some enquiries.”

“Don’t bother just yet Mary.”



I was relieved to have made the decision but I didn’t want her enthusiasm to overwhelm me.

“I knew it wouldn’t be long before you decided to move,” Mary said in a happy voice.

“Oh, how did you know that, have you suddenly become telepathic, or a fortune teller?” I loved teasing Mary; I wished she could see me smiling.

“Well, I can’t explain it exactly. Let’s just say a little bird told me.”



I turned to see the fantail sitting on the window ledge looking at me. It nodded and gave a haughty shrug of its tail then flew away.

John Darkin



September 2012









Spycatcher

Twenty-five years ago in 1987 I was party to a crime of procuring goods, banned in Britain, and importing them illegally into the country - to wit, fifty hardback copies of the infamous tell-tale book ‘Spycatcher’. The British government reviled this literary work and its author, so much so that the offence I committed was tantamount to treason, a crime which, up until not many years before, was punishable by hanging.

The book’s English author, Peter Wright, was a former MI5 spook based in London. It was said that he had a grudge against his employer over lost pension rights and the revelations in the book were his revenge. Wright exposed several aspects of MI5’s work, including his assertion that a former Head of MI5, Roger Hollis was really a KGB agent; that the American CIA and MI5 had together plotted to remove Labour Prime Minister Harold Wilson from office because he had Soviet sympathies; and that MI5 had tried to kill several heads of state including President Nasser of Egypt during the Suez crisis.

Regarded as the work of a traitor, Wright’s book was banned from publication by British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, who threatened serious repercussions for anyone breaking it. As early as 1985 her government had tried to stop the publication of ‘Spycatcher’ overseas, notably in an unsuccessful attempt in an Australian court to have the ban extended there. Wright’s Australian lawyer, the politician Malcolm Turnbull, said after the case that British criticism of his client ‘reeked of bad losing’, a view that further angered the British establishment. The publicity surrounding the case was massive, and when the book did eventually appear in 1987 it made the author wealthy. Wright had received the best free publicity any author could hope for.

‘Spycatcher’ was the English literary world’s greatest cause celebre since the ban on Lady Chatterley’s Lover was lifted in 1960.

Conscious of the book’s growing notoriety, an angry Margaret Thatcher silenced the British press too. Injunctions were served on leading newspapers banning speculation or the reporting of anything connected to Peter Wright and the leaked contents of his book. At this low point in MI5 history the Home Secretary said in desperation that everyone had ‘a duty of confidentiality’.

Without the book to read, public curiosity had been fired up and the defenders of press freedom were ready for a fight. Then there came an unexpected and embarrassing snag for the Thatcher government when it was discovered that under an obscure Scottish law the media north of the border still had the right to report on the book’s contents. Forbidden details began to flow across the whole of the British Isles and the government’s fury was unbounded. Battle lines were drawn between the necessity for state secrecy and freedom of information.

‘Spycatcher’ was finally published in 1987 by William Heinemann in Australia. Simultaneous editions were released by Viking Penguin in the United States and Stoddart Publishing in Canada. Within days of the book coming off the overseas press I had committed my act of treason.

I worked as a bookseller in a small independent bookshop in an ancient cathedral city not far from London. Interest in the book was high among many of our regular customers who included bishops, retired civil servants, lawyers, senior military officers, several politicians (including one sacked Tory cabinet minister) and former spooks who we assumed were anxious to check if they had been mentioned in Wright’s illegal book. One by one they came into the shop or telephoned and spoke to us in furtive tones.

“Will you be...eh...that book...?”

“You don’t know where...eh...I could find...?”

“Look, I don’t want to...get you...trouble, but...”

The actual name of the book or its author were not mentioned, secrecy and stealth were deemed essential on both sides, illegal to buy, criminal to sell, mum’s the word. To all those customers known to us we whispered, “The matter is in hand, we’ll call you in a few days.”

We had been very careful with whom we took a risk. I still recall one man who came in and quickly scanned the shelves. He was not a regular and was dressed in a belted gabardine raincoat with the collar turned up and a trilby hat pulled low over his brow. I was alone in the shop and approached him with caution.

“Give me a copy of that spy book,” he ordered gruffly.

“I’m very sorry sir but we don’t sell illegal merchandise here. You do know the book is banned?” The man gave me an evil stare as if I were something nasty stuck on the bottom of his shoe, grunted and left.

We had already put our plan into action. My colleague’s brother lived in Canada. One phone call to him and within hours he was on a plane to England carrying two suitcases full of copies of ‘Spycatcher’ which he had bought directly from the publisher. On arrival we wrapped each copy in plain brown paper and hid them in a cupboard at the back of the office. We left cryptic telephone messages with our trusted customers; the booksellers’ version of ‘the eagle has landed’. Within a day all fifty copies had gone.

Peter Wright left Britain and reappeared in Tasmania, leaving English booksellers to illegally distribute his message until the ban on ‘Spycatcher’ was lifted in 1988. I hope he was grateful. For my small, but traitorous part I have, since 1987, always winced when I see a man approaching me in a belted gabardine raincoat and trilby hat. He could be my undoing.

John Darkin

September 2012

Pyjamas

In recent times the good people of Gisborne have been divided and angry. It’s not the issue of water ownership which threatens the peace of this normally unflappable community, or whether local farms should be flogged off to Chinese dairy giants. Even escalating rate bills hardly raise a sweat, let alone the likely commencement of fracking operations beneath their feet. The cause of so much heat under collars is whether people should be allowed to wear pyjamas in the CBD and in particular in the supermarkets. The fashion has been initiated by women but bets are on as to how long it will be before men sew up their PJ flies and join in.

Letters to the Gisborne Herald, mostly unsigned, are split between the ‘Disgusted’ variety and the ‘I Love my PJs’. In favour of parading their nightwear in public are shoppers who ‘plan to go back to bed as soon as the supermarket shop is done’, and others who say they ‘can’t afford dry cleaning so they live in their night clothes’. Some honestly admit to being more comfortable in pyjamas and don’t care about the opinions of others.

Angry pronouncements against public PJ wearing include accusations of ‘laziness’ and ‘unhygienic behaviour’. One writer suggested that pyjamas will import lice and bed bugs into food shops. Someone else argued that if people wanted to wear PJs in public they should ‘go to Dubai or London’. Another person fumed that ‘even in Nepal people dress nicely’. ‘Where is your pride?’ the writer asked.

Both sides have deeply entrenched views. We are reminded of our human rights by one and our dignity by the other. The anti-PJ camp has urged the District Council to issue a ban on the wearing of pyjamas in public, and for offenders to be fined. To implement this it is suggested that the council would have to introduce pyjama police patrols, a prospect which has neutral residents worried, concerned that collecting mail from the box at the front gate while wearing night attire would put them at risk of arrest.

Pro-PJ wearers appealed to the mayor to go public in his PJs. His spokesperson said that what the mayor wore in his parlour was a private matter. Pressed further the spokesperson denied that the mayor would be attending a forthcoming Winceyette industry expo in Beijing.

But have the mayor and the city fathers missed a trick? The upshot of this brouhaha begs the question, has Gisborne, a geographically remote city in need of new jobs and desperate to grab the attention of entrepreneurs and investors, struck gold by stumbling upon a new fashion trend? Notwithstanding any claims from Dubai and London, could the wearing of PJs in public be the next worldwide daytime fashion phenomenon and a boost to Gisborne’s fortunes?  It’s fair to say that local folk are not renowned for their sartorial elegance. Until recently the more popular default modes of dress were board shorts and tees, very low slung jeans or ill-fitting track pants, worn with gum boots or bare feet. Based on this evidence, pyjamas as haute couture have little competition to fear.

The other morning as I strolled through the CBD, I saw a man wearing a dark grey, bespoke suit, a silk tie and black polished Oxfords. This degree of elegance is a rare sight in Gisborne and other people noticed him too. Surprised, I looked around for a funeral cortege but there wasn’t one. Perhaps he was a visiting lawyer or an investor looking for opportunities. The man was very smart and I wondered if he’d ever been to Nepal. He stood out among the informal crowds like a sore thumb and was easily outnumbered by pyjamas. I hoped he had noticed.

Yes, fashion is a fickle business and the craze for wearing daytime pyjamas may not last until nightfall. Slick suits may even make a comeback if that man hangs around long enough. The best locals can do now is call a truce between the two sides and hope that the pyjama wearing squabble may be turned to Gisborne’s economic advantage by some courageous entrepreneur.

 In the meantime I’ve decided to hold off sewing up my PJ flies, just in case.

(A version of this article appeared in the Guardian Weekly 2012)