Across the Big Blue

It's a mild, clear and quiet Spring day in Tasmania. Monsterman is out and about somewhere with his mother for his weekly visit with her. Most likely he's down brushing down, riding or feeding horses.

Me? I'm taking a few moments out to procrastinate. There are things I need to do. Small jobs like hanging out laundry, buying food for Rappy, mowing the lawn, giving the carpets a decent vacuuming, making myself something for lunch - things like that.

Oh. And finish packing my bags.

This time two days from now I'll be looking out the window of a Qantas jet as it taxis down the runway at Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport, knowing that as I watch the wheels lift off the ground I'll be settling in to make the long haul flight to Los Angeles.

At the other end of that, somewhere just beyond the Customs point, Renee (she of the undying devotion to all things wombat) will be waiting for me.

She is sure to look, feel and smell fantastic; while I'm fairly certain that even if I take a moment or three to give myself a quick pseudo-scrub down and throw on a new shirt, I'm going to look rumpled, tired and probably be a little on the nose.

I'm pretty sure she'll forgive me that.

As you might imagine, I'm pretty excited about it. The time apart from one another has been too long - remedying that is definitely something to look forward to.

And, truth be told, I'm also a little apprehensive. In a weird, hard to pin down sorta way.

Of course, there is the disquiet I always feel on those rare occasions I have to leave Monsterman for any extended length of time. But that's a given for me really.

The main reason for that, I think, is the destination. While I've travelled internationally before, I've never been to another English-speaking country (I'm being generous here in implying that either Australia or the United States speak English, but you know what I mean), with a similar culture (see previous proviso) to my own home country.

I think it is the similarities mixed with the slight, subtle and not so slight or subtle differences that has my brain doing a minor pre-emptive flip-out.

Little things, like people driving on the wrong side of the road. Or tipping after a meal or some such service. Having to ask for soda or pop or some such rather than soft-drink or cordial. Keeping the vegetable shortening and eggs in the wrong part of the store. Saying, "How ya doin'," instead of "how's it goin'?" Having my accent being the stand-out difference rather than my language or appearence. Walmart and a lack of Chickenfeed stores. Weird sports. Cabs not taxis. A distinct lack of meat pies or really good fish and chips. Once again being in places where multiculturalism is visibly evident as opposed to this overwhelmingly white-anglo bit of the world I currently live in. Thanksgiving. Stuff like that.

Or the knowledge that in some ways the culture I'll be in will be at one and the same time better and worse, the same and different to the one that I have been exposed to in books and on television and in movies and documentaries.

Perhaps it's that while I am confident in knowing the cues and taboos and the social nuances where I am, I'm unsure as to how transferable that knowledge will be. That isn't as much an issue when going to a completely "foreign" country and culture - there the expectation that I'll be socially and culturally naive is a given. It's right up front and out there. This time though, it seems a bit...muddier. The lines that mark the differences are less distinct. Blurred.

The best bet I suppose is to simply let any prior knowledge and expectation go and just enjoy immersing myself in a different country (in very good company too I might add) - but given the ubiquitous imposition of American mores and culture I've been exposed to thoughout my life it's not so easy to do.

Now, when you are planning going to a completely different culture,you read up and research so you can at least get by. Or at least I do. For the U.S. though (or, as an Australian, the U.K for that matter), all of that research and surface dipping is not just un-necessary, but near impossible. It's already there. In you. That lifetime of subtle and overt information and influence.

In that way, I guess that makes this trip too, and entirely new experience for me - even if it is in a very mild way discomforting.

And any way, regardless of all of that, I have the best of reasons to be making that flight and diving into this new land and new experience.

And to mark the moment and celebrate the anticipation, in the times of procrastination between now and my leaving, I'm going to re-post a few more old bits of writing: stories of Renee, Monsterman and I, of the King and Queen of Chickenfeed of popcorn and movies and of the American sofa.

Two more sleeps. Two more days, two more airports and a long arsed flight across the Big Blue.

I can't wait.

The Brat

One of my favourite bits of trivia gleaned from my father was the information that there are five sheep stations in Australia that are bigger in area than Texas.

I like that tidbit for a few reasons, the main one being its appeal to my sense of the whimsical. I think about that and I imagine the state of Texas being filled with sheep wearing cowboy hats - or alternatively there are a lot of gun-totin' sheep wandering around the Australian outback. I like that it puts a saying like "bigger than Texas" into perspective. I like that it reminds me that the Mercator projection of the world map is more than a teeny bit misleading. I like that it reminds me that Australia is a big country and I still haven't seen as much of it as I would like.

I grew up as an Air Force brat. Something about the advent of my birth obviously scared nine colours of shit out of my father and he enlisted. Perhaps it was the fact that I was born on a Sunday in Hobart when all the pubs were closed for trading. For someone as fond of a tipple as he was I imagine that was a foreboding of doom in and of itself.

The first six months of my life were lived in the very town when I am sitting and typing this and then, once my father finished his basic training, I was to have homes up and down the eastern seaboard of the country. Two homes in Queensland, one in Canberra (the nation's capital, memorable to me mainly from the regular visits to the National War Memorial Museum, getting lost twice - once at an air show and another time in the shopping centre, and my first attempt at running away from home), one in the outer suburbs of Sydney, another brief sojourn north to Queensland, sulking moodily through puberty in country Victoria and finally back north for two more homes in Queensland.

Every two years, we would sit down for a family discussion about which postings we would prefer Dad to apply for, and make a list one through five. Possessions would be packed away in boxes, waiting for the news that another move was in the offing. Sometimes, that move never eventuated, and we'd either huff about missing out or breath a sigh of relief, depending on where we were at the time. And then we'd put it out of our minds for another two years, when we'd once more hold our collective breath for another month of our lives on hold.

That two yearly holding of breath and expectation of another upheaval is one of the things I have carried right through my life. A habit I seem to have difficulty letting go of. It is just one of the legacies the Royal Australian Air Force bequeathed to me. They are quite the mixed bag of dichotomies, but every now and then I contemplate them and realise how much being a forces brat helped define who I am.

One of those would be a very diminished of sense of parochialism. When you grow up without a hometown - without childhood friends that you've known since kindergarten, grown up with, had adventures and shared in the rites of passage with - you tend to develop the recognition that every town has its uniqueness and its similarities. Its a sense that opens up the world and shrinks it at one and the same time.

Another legacy has been my reaction to all things military (which in itself grew to encapsulate all things forces and then all things authority as my experience of the world grew). There is something about the forces that I can recognise as being completely essential if you are training people to wander off to parts foreign in order to kill people and put their own lives in mortal peril. It is the fostering of the "us vs. them" mind-set. For anyone who hasn't been in or lived with the forces (and I include the police here), it is much more all encompassing than simply "our country vs. theirs". It is built up with layers and levels, in much the same way as the ranks are layered inside the forces.

The first division is military vs. civilian. We are a group apart, and above those who don't share our burden. We are your protectors, your guardians and we are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for you. This makes us special and your betters. Be thankful we are here. Next comes forces vs. forces. Army is better than Navy is better than Air Force who are better than both unless you're Navy and so on ad infinitum. We have to realise just how special we are in our own community and how pivotal we are to the defense of our nation. Then we have the unit/ship/squadron vs. everyone else division. Without us, everyone else would be totally incapacitated. We are the best so (to borrow from the now world famous Marine motto), sempre fi motherfucker! And then we have us vs. our allies. I mean, sure, they are our allies, but where were they when? and if we hadn't been there for... We know that if it wasn't for us, the whole damn alliance and world would fall apart, because, well, we're just the best! Right? Finally, we have us vs. "the bad guys" which in essence is anyone that isn't one of the aforementioned - usually of a different colour skin, speaks a different language and believes in a different god than us though. It helps keep things simple.

As I said, I understand the necessity of that, and yet...it concerns me that these people are living outside their own society, and are being forced to live outside the mores and laws and behaviours of their own societies. For one who grew up as a child looking in at, and grew to adulthood watching it day in, day out, it explains so very much why it is that the Forces have such an incredibly high level of alcoholism and divorce. By the very nature of their occupation, they are dislocated people.

Another effect the air force had on me was to see how blind figures in authority can be, and to see just how well power can corrupt, and how easy it is to abuse power. I got to see first hand the perfection of double-speak and its concomitant twisting of reality. In some sense, I have to be grateful to my father in seeing this, because from day one he was always somewhat of a rebellious, anti-social shite - evidenced by only getting as far as sergeant in 21 years of service (repeatedly telling officers to "Get Fucked. Sir." does tend to inhibit promotion opportunities) - and his recounting the day's doings with those in command were quite enlightening.

Being an Air Force brat gave me a love of flying and aircraft, and a very healthy respect and dislike for firearms. I still remember the force and sudden intense anger of my father when I made the mistake of pointing a water pistol at him. A gun is ALWAYS loaded. Oh yes, I learned that lesson very well indeed - unlike one of his co-workers and friends who died in a hunting accident in the highlands of Victoria.

I learned that the people in the military, although separated from society at large, are still human, wanting to live and love and kick back with a few beers by the bar-be-que on a Sunday afternoon. I can still remember meeting one of my father's S.A.S mates for the first time. A seemingly impossibly huge man, gruff yet friendly, and bearded in his "civvie" down-time clothes; with his three year old daughter laughing joyously down at me and the world from her perch atop her father's shoulders.

"He is one of the most dangerous men you will ever meet." my own father tells me as they walk away to the accompaniment of their mutual laughter. I couldn't get my head to make the two very different men meld in the same big body.

The constant moving taught me how to make every place I choose to live my home. It also taught me that books can be close companions, that making acquaintances can be easy but making friends is almost impossibly rare, that alcohol isn't fun for family in excess, that Australia could desperately do with a nationally consistent school curriculum, that people are people, no matter where you are, and that most of them are more mundane and at the same time more bizarre and surprising than you could ever imagine.

It taught me that in war and conflict, people die. Good people. Bad people. Corrupt people. Innocent people. By choice and by design and by accident, people of all sorts die in war.

It's that last one alone that for me, makes "The Last Post" the single most gut wrenchingly emotional pieces of music I have ever heard. Regardless the reason for those many people dying, that people were taken from those they loved. Both us. And them.

After all that, a child of the bigoted military and the war machine has grown to be an open minded, anti-military, anti-authority, pacifist.

The forces helped me become who I am and see the world as I do. It can't be all bad I guess.

Food, Fuel, Art and Desire

I've come to the decision that it isn't language, tool use, sex for pleasure's sake alone or an unprecedented ability to fuck with the environment that distinguishes human beings from the other animals. What sets us apart is food.

When it comes to food, we do something no other animal appears to do. We blend foods. In all sorts of amazing and mind-boggling mysterious and interesting ways. And we serve it and eat it in an almost equally wide range of variations.

And the things we choose to eat! Truffles. An insane explosion of flavour and it's a damn mushroom. A black and malformed lump of fungus. Someone somewhere, dug one up, looked at it and thought,

"Fuck it. Why not? I'm game!"

Shellfish. I mean seriously? Looks like snot, feels like snot, tastes like...fucking hell! Give me some more!

Fermented fruit. "What? You're going to drink that stuff? Smells like its gone bad mate! I wouldn't if I were...Ohhhhhh yeahhhhhh! Thats soooo good! What? You call it wine? Why the hell not, works for me! I love ya mate, y'know that dontcha?"

The list could go on and on and on. It is truly bewildering.

For most other animals food is simply utilitarian. To be fair to them though, it really is a matter of survival. When you're a massive tonne or so of moose shouldering your way through snowdrifts, or a small gecko scrabbling across desert rocks, you don't really have the time to pause and say, "Hmmm, I think it could do with just a touch more cumin."

We have the luxury of being able to make food into something more than just fuel. No matter the surrounding environment, humans everywhere take the time to make the act of eating something....sublime.

Food is a luxurious indulgence that is eminently fulfilling to a sensualist such as me. If you have the luxury or inclination to do so, the act of preparing a meal, presenting it and then eating it is one of the richest total engagement of the senses it is legally possible to experience.

It begins with the selection of the ingredients, where the appearance of the food, its feel, its firmness, its smell - even the sound of it as a nail is flicked against it - are all taken into account. Already we are anticipating the combination of flavours and textures that will come from our selections.

In the preparation we bring all our senses to bear again. Its such a tactile act - pulling, tearing, cutting, shredding, grinding - we get the feel of each ingredient so fully at this point. At the same time, our eyes are watching and measuring, judging size and colour and shape. There is the satisfying sound of a blade slicing its way through the flesh, the thunk into the board beneath, the crisp sound of vegetable fibres parting way, the sound of a pestle scraping against the mortar bowl.

And the smells. Oh gods above, the smells! As each ingredient begins its transformation into a meal, it releases its raw scent into the air and it hooks straight in to the most primal and ancient parts of our brain.

And then we begin the mixing, blending, folding in and cooking and we get our first hints of the delights that to that point were simply seductive promises. As each item joins the mix, new scents and colours appear, filling the air with luscious vapours. The sounds of sizzling and bubbling a perfect counterpoint to the olfactory and visual scene unfolding.

Then its ready to serve, and you place it on the plate artfully, remembering the time you heard the phrase "The first bite is with the eyes," and you get the chance to indulge a sense of the aesthetic. It is art simply begging to be consumed.

And finally. Finally, at last and a-fucking-men, you get to eat it, and the indulgent love affair begins all over again. Your eyes take in the splashes of colour and already you are eating. You lean forward a little to breathe in the scents deeply and immediately you are tasting. You bring it to your lips and into your mouth and everything happens. The tastes, the textures, the smells. The soft sighs and moans and exclamations of appreciation.

The way people interact with food says a lot about them too. I enjoy watching people eat, and I'll confess in my mind I'm making assumptions about their personality that may well be as unwarranted as judging them by their music or book collection (yes, that's also a habit of mine).

Do they take the time to prepare their own food or do they live on take-away and fast food? Are they selective about the foods they eat? Is it fuel or indulgence? Do they gulp their food down without pause to savour it? Do they linger over it lovingly? Do they approach it all prim and proper according to some restrictive for of table etiquette? Do their eyes close and glaze over in some sort of orgasmic delight at each bite? The way we eat reflects our background, our upbringing, our priorities, how in touch we are with our bodies, how we view the work and lives of ourselves and others. It's all there, hovering above a plate.

Is it any wonder food and sex are so closely associated, they give us that total sensory engagement and lay bear who we are at our core.

I think it may well be that the way we blend foods is the pinnacle of human achievement.

The Wren

So there we were. Sitting in a mini-moke driving through the mid-day heat of tropical north Queensland; Rockhampton and the Mount Etna caves still over an hour's drive away. The air was thick, so humid that I could feel the droplets of water hitting the back of my throat as I breathed. The heat was like a blanket wrapped around every part of me, the wind coming in through the open side panels almost solid.

WHAM!

An explosion of feathers showered us, the swirling wind pushing them into our eyes, our mouths, sticking them to our skin where the sweat flowed from our chests.

"What the fuck was that?"

I touched the brakes and began to work back down through the gears. There was the crunching of the gravel under the wheels as the car leaves the tarmacked highway for the verge. Slow to stop.

We twisted around in our seats, straining to see what the hell hit us.

"It sounded big," said Johno, "What do you think it was?"

"Dunno, I can't see anything. That's fuckin' weird."

I clambered out of the car, and started unclipping the roof from the windscreen, folding it back as soon as the last clip was free. Johno was already in the back; lifting our sleeping bags and duffles out of the way, sitting the stereo on the edge of the car, putting the cassettes on the front seat. I lifted the esky full of our food and drinks out and saw the cause of that loud percussive thud. The erstwhile owner of the feathers still decorating my face and hair.

A small blue wren, still as still, head cocked at an odd angle, the sun shining on its black wing turned into a glorious azure blue sheen.

"A wren," I said, and held my hand out towards Johno.

"Poor little bugger," he says, "Fuck, that must have hurt."

"At that speed? Nah. We must've been doing around a hundred going by the tacho, and if this little fella was flying towards us...must have been instantaneous."

There wasn't a word spoken about it, but for some reason, we both decided that as we were somewhat responsible for this bird's untimely demise, we ought at least move it into the trees away from the roadside. Neither of us really wanted to imagine other animals pecking at it by the roadside, perhaps coming unstuck beneath the wheels of some other car.

The air was just as thick and hot under the shade of the eucalyptus that lined the road, only with the added bonus of the burn of eucalyptus oil going into our noses mouths and lungs. Other sensations too - the crackling and crunching of leaves underfoot, the feel of small stones and twigs pressing the soles of my feet, and a fluttering twitch in the palm of my hand.

"Fucking hell. Its still alive!"

"Fuck off. No way it could be alive after that."

"Well have a look yourself!"

Sure enough, as I gently opened my fingers, it was alive. Small eyes blinking, feet twitching and wings flickering.

We stood, foreheads touching, leaning our faces in close in stunned amazement, watching every breath it took, every movement it made. Then it shook itself, settling all its feathers back into place, the azure shimmer gone now in the shade, but the bright blue crest on its head shook as it seemed to shrug off the impact with the back window of our car.

Then it was off in a mad whirring clatter of wings beating air, the two of us flinging ourselves backwards in surprise at the suddenness of its movement.

We sat there, under the trees, the insistent clicking of insects in the bushes, the sound of rushing air being pushed out of the way of passing cars on the highway, the air still wrapping itself around us and watched the last space in the air where we saw the wren. Stunned. Amazed. Feeling oddly moved and privileged to have watched this small creature cheat death.

"Well, what do reckon? Think we'll make the caves before sunset?"

"Yeah, I don't think we're that far. Want me to drive?"

"Sure, I reckon I could do with the break. Besides, I'm getting a little sick of Peter Tosh. I mean, it's good, but fuck, that's been the last three hours mate."

"Hah! You just have no taste!"

A more formal introduction

So now it's done. The move into the wider world of internet bloggery. Just one more person making that mad leap out into a world filled with Warhol's fifteen minuters.

This is not my first such foray though - merely my most public and least restricting. And as such, I hope also my most open, honest and wide ranging.

A question I have sometimes asked myself when writing in various online fora is, "Why am I writing this online and not in a private journal?"

The answer doesn't always come quickly, but it is usually involves a mixture of reasons and rationales. I like the challenge of writing for an audience. I like to share my thoughts, experiences and ideas with others. I like the opportunity to hear the thoughts and critiques from others on my thoughts, experiences and ideas - and hear theirs in turn. I like to learn and understand and hunt down the core of a thought as I explore it in the written word.

And, as so many of us do, I like to be heard.

Sometimes for as wide an audience as possible, sometimes for a very select few, sometimes just for an audience of one, but I like to be heard. To be known.

So who am I? Who is this "PiraticalPenguin"?

The best answer for that will (hopefully) come out in the writing I share here, but for now I'll give a thinly lined sketch and leave the colour and shading for later.

I'm some five months under forty years on this ball of mud - all of it in the Southern half of it. Australia more specifically, with most of my formative years moving regularly about the Eastern states and for the majority of my adult life in the even more Southern island state of Tasmania.

As a minor aside, my own small contribution to essential Tasmanian trivia (if I were ever asked to contibute to a Tourism Tasmania brochure) would be:

The best view of the Aurora Australis is to be found in the Cradle Mountain National Park whilst lying on the snow-covered top of a 1964 Holden panel-van, drinking Stones Green Ginger Wine.

Awash with liquid fire inside, the sky awash with waves of green fire above.

I share my home with an incredibly bright, handsome, fun ten year old and a rat. The ten year old is Monsterman (AKA Ruggie, Slugger, Ratbag, Sludgeguts, Handsomeman, Mate, Cobber, Mr.Man, Stop-That-Now, and Grrr depending on the mood and the situation) and the rat is Rappy (AKA Rapstar).

Monsterman is, without question, the most important person in my life.

I am also fortunate in that there is a stunningly witty, smart, funny, caring, giving and incredibly sexy woman curently on the other side of the planet in a land I never in all my life dreamed I would visit, who is also very important to me. Whilst she may have been able to steadfastly resist my obvious urbane charms, wit and devastating good looks (I jest), she was unable to resist my ultimate ploy and secret weapon: I introduced her to the waddling delight known as the Common Wombat. It was the wombats that convinced her that the best of futures lay in far off Tasmania. In a desperate act of retaliation, she introduced Monsterman to Elvis and claimed my sofa as an outpost of the United States of America - complete with diplomatic immunity.

I still maintain I get the better of that deal.

What other lines can I add to this sketch?

I am a voracious reader and self-confessed knowledge junkie who is borderline pathologically curious about pretty near everything. I can strum out a tune or two on a guitar and at times can even add my singing to the cacophany. At different times I've been a humble labourer, done the management schtick, self-employed, a university student, a teacher and a natural therapist. Sometimes two or three of those overlapped. I've done my time with Amnesty International and Greenpeace, seriously studied biology, genetics, education, philosophy and casually studied pretty much everything else - with history, politics, current affairs and cosmology being the big favourites. I'm a long term, big picture sorta fella that likes to reflect and act on the effects of those in the short term, small picture world.

Those things too, will probably become evident in what I choose to write in this little corner of the internet.

Mostly though, I hope to write about my life. As it is now for myself - in the immediate and personal sense, and how I view the world and events and people within it - and also my life as it was with small stories and vignettes that stand out as thought markers and metaphors. And of course, my hopes for the future - both the practical and personal, and the idealistic and broadly encompassing.

For the last part of this sketch, I'll give the reason for my name here.

First off, it is important to state that penguins are cool.

I have a soft spot for animals that have a hidden grace. Penguins fit that bill extremely well. Birds that waddle instead of fly, that show a sense of play bellysliding over the ice and incredible grace and speed in the water. Then too, there is the parental role of the male penguins - going without and withstanding the earthly hell of Antarctic winters to protect and nurture their offspring.

And they have their own tux.

Like I say, penguins are cool (so are wombats, but that's an altogether different matter).

Piratical? Well let's just say I liked the comic juxtaposition of an outlaw-ish penguin - and alliteration, like penguins, is cool too.

That's it for the introductory sketch.

The first few entries after this will most likely be resurections of older pieces of writing, and I daresay some more of those will pop up from time to time if they feel relevant to what my life and thoughts are doing at the time.As for the new writing to come: some might be of, shall we say, adult nature, most won't, most will be up for public scrutiny and comment, some won't. There will be pondering and philosophising and political waffling, introspection and reflection, directionless pontification and just plain old story-telling.

Welcome aboard.

No Compass Required

Sailing an iceberg across the briny sea is a rather daunting task. Its slippery for one thing. The size of the waves is terrifying. From the peaks you can see nothing but mile upon mile of these massive walls of water and a glance over the side shows a lot more empty air thank you feel comfortable with.

Gravity is doing more than beckoning. It has sidled up to you, rubbed its fundamental lawishness up and down your thigh and scrawled its phone number on your forehead in indelible ink.

When the whole fragile tub of ice succumbs you find yourself in the trough, deep in the belly of the beast and those grey walls of water look like slick granite and the sliver of sky above seems impossibly far away.

Propulsion is also a bit of a problem. Finding somewhere to erect a matchstick is challenge enough, let alone trying to step three decent sized lengths of timber any self-respecting pirate berg requires. Nope, no sails flying like a fat woman's clothes-line on laundry day here. Just a flat deck covered in ropes. Forward momentum comes courtesy of the tides and winds alone.

Which of course means there's a fair amount of backwards and sideways momentum going on as well.

There is a fairly sizable keel of course. Nine tenths of this frozen barge is doing an admirable job of keeping the upside up and the downside down. What there seems to be a distinct lack of is a rudder.

So its all a rather hit and miss affair involving scrabbling madly across the slick surface, dig the toes in and lean left to go port, lean right to go starboard. Extend a flipper for turning signals.

Oh, and did I happen to mention there's no compass?

And the thing is made of ice. Its one of the defining characteristics of icebergs in fact. What exactly makes them bergy I don't know, but there is one hell of a lot of ice. And the thing about ice is this. It likes things best when its cold. Ice is never going to be a fair weather friend - one whiff of sunny days and the damn thing has slipped out from underneath you as though it had simply melted into the water.

But I have this plan.

You may think I'm kinda crazy and mad and seven and a half different kinds of insane, but I think its going to work.

I'm going to get this sub-zero scow and laminate it. Icy stem to frigid stern. I'll lasso a couple of passing seals (hey, you've seen them frolicking about - its not like the slackers have anything better to do with their time) and lash them to the pointy end.

I've got a first mate signed up on the promise of wild times, southern exploration and crazymad flipper sex. I've got a cabin boy complete with his own rat.

I'm not worrying about a compass. Instead I'm turning my face to the sun and plotting a course to the warmth, sun and drinks served in obscenely big glasses with bits of fruit and umbrellas hanging out of them.

It'll work.

I've got the boat. I've got a first mate and a cabin boy. I've got a belaying pin, oodles of rope and cat o' nine for recalcitrants. I just need some more crew.

Any takers?