The PR Blog

Aesop's Fables, or the Aesopica, is a collection of fables credited to Aesop, a slave in Ancient Greece.  He was also a storyteller and lived around 600 BC. 

They always had a moral to the story, something which exists to this day : telling a tale to deliver a message. 

How times change. I found this old post from 2019 and realised that the world is now reaping the reward of an old fable that has been forgotten. 

It seems that these days, hard work is punished and idleness is rewarded. The end result, however, is very different.  To reward idleness and punish hard work will destroy our Free World. 

If we were all grasshoppers, we would surely perish. That is why countries like China like to keep plenty of ants on hand. Without the ants, the grasshoppers could not enjoy their life of privilege. 

I have the lurgy. The flu. The bot. The bug. The thing that makes you feel like crap and renders you incapable of thought other than to moan and groan about how bloody miserable I feel.

It all started when I went off with my Mum to commemorate my father’s passing.. Dad left us and we try to do something that celebrates his life. Well, Dad loved his Maccas. He did not enjoy the Maccas he had in the Invercargill McDonalds when he ordered a breakfast burger dripping in creamy mayonnaise and so saturated with body killing stuff that one could hardly taste the meat pattie, the cheese or the tomato sauce. As I recollect it had something to do with Jonah Lomu but I could be wrong.

We sat in the Invercargill Maccas and my Dad and I had ordered the breakfast burger. Mum ordered the pancakes and syrup.

Some time ago , Raymond F Peters passed from this life into a new realm. One that embraces his love of life, decency and all that is worthwhile.  He retired from writing not too long ago and here we have the recognition of Shaydee's father passing. 

I had not intended to ever post this. But it just feels right. 

This dear man gave so much and asked for so little. He used to say that all he wanted was a bit of love and tenderness. Which he received in spades from his family.

He wrote here and his words were those of wisdom, insight and passionate belief in all that is good and worthy.  He was and will always be a man… a MAN.

Raymond F Peters was pure male. He was your father, your brother, your cousin, your Uncle and your SELF. He stood for all decent men and all men who cared about their wives, daughters and female relatives. He cared about men and the young men who would come after him.

New Zealand weightlifter Laurel Hubbard won two gold medals at the recent Pacific Games. Hubbard, 41, was born as a bloke named Gavin. Laurel took double gold in the women’s over-87kg category at the Samoa 2019 games.

Some people feel that this is tantamount to cheating. If Gavin couldn’t win as a bloke, they say, then “ Laurel”  might win in the women’s division.

Up until 2003, Gavin would have to have had his bits and pieces chopped off (also known as reassignment surgery) plus undergoing at least 2 years of hormone therapy in order to be eligible to compete. Now, surgery is no longer required.

Apparently, it is now all about testosterone and the Olympic Committee (IOC) criteria regarding testosterone levels for transgender athletes.

My daughter has been a vegetarian since she was 6 years old. She is now in her 40's and still a vegetarian.

She decided that meat was not for her, and, I , as her mother, learned how to adapt and serve meat and 3 vege to the rest of the family, along with my daughter's need to avoid animal flesh.

At the beginning it was difficult. Serving meatless meals was a walk in the park after a few short months and I managed to keep the hubby happy and the daughter happy by just knowing my way around a kitchen.

 It all started this morning when I went to my local bakery to buy my decadent monthly treat. It ended up being about dodgy dudes.

My decadent indulgence is a big cream stick doughnut, with lashings of homemade strawberry jam and enough cream to drown out any guilt that I should have felt for having dared to challenge my body’s right to have an opinion on the matter.

I buy two – one for me and one for my Mum. We sit in the sunroom, Royal Albert teacups in hand, serviettes at the ready and our toes curled up in unison as we delight in our guilty pleasure. It is a lovely wicked indulgence and I have tried to feel bad about it. I truly have. But I don’t care. For about 10 minutes, once a month, we sit there laughing smiling, oohing and aahing about a cream doughnut that makes us forget all the nasty in the world, all the PC rubbish, all the political treason and the misery that is modern-day life.