Saturday, November 21, 2009

21 November, 1910

One forgets that cities like Christchurch that sit facing the Pole at this latitude grew up on whaling, until one spends time at the docks and sees the old Maori men and catches the stench of the blubber and oil. God but that's a messy business. One of them wanted to show me how he flensed a skin, but I had to make my excuses. They beach themselves on a regular basis. Nobody knows why. The sight of blood leaves me weak, if I'm being really honest. I may have mentioned that already.

I look around at the horses and dogs and it does me no good to know we're going to slaughter them all, every last one.

Our last week. Kathleen is getting clingy.

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