Somewhat unexpectedly I found myself chatting away on the phone for what seemed like hours this afternoon to my old chum Anthony Green. He and his wife are over here in this Far Place, escaping from their usual base in Christchurch, for a family wedding. Unfortunately he's too busy for us to meet up in person, but he was able to spare the time for a relaxed confab, as was I, having got my work stuff out of the way by the early afternoon.
It transpires that Tony's latest project involves a podcast entitled Christchurch Conversations, deriving from his role as the spokesperson (in English, I think) for one of the mosques in which the dreadful massacre took place back in 2019. Some light out of the deepest darkness. Good work, in the deepest sense.
We also shared, as old men do, our most recent health scares. I reckon my sojourn in ICU with alarmingly low oxygen levels plus brain seizures and their attendant psychosis had the edge over his triple-bypass in terms of bragging rights. But, then, I would think that, wouldn't I?
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