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Photo (c) Nick Wright 2017 The stories are getting more complicated as he gets older. He still arrives at about 6 am clutching the Beebops, who still greet me and, using my voice, relay their adventures of the night before. A year ago they were happy just to go to the park or the beach, but things move on. Now, when Noah is asleep, they apparently filch the keys to Daddy's Ford Ranger (the speediest truck on the road!), and drive off into the night to fly about the place in helium balloons, liberate lions and elephants from circuses, go to the airport for trips to Africa, or Spain or Auckland, and evade prosecution for underage driving by the simple expedient of turning back into toys when the police officer looks through the window. Yesterday, as the the intrepid stuffed rabbits were making their way to Christchurch's rocket base for a trip to Saturn, Noah put his hand up to shield his mouth from the Beebops' view and whispered to me, "This is just imagining,

I woke early and rose while it was still dark. In the harbour below me, the orange streetlights made triangular reflections like a row of skinny, upside down Christmas trees. I made coffee. Lit a fire. Sat down at about 5.30, and by 6.25 this journey was over. During the last week or so, reading the epistles, I knew I was looking over people's shoulders as they wrote into arguments that are millennia gone. I was aware I was not consulting an oracle, but hearing  brief snatches of  one side only of  long and complex conversations. I was aware that the intended hearers were seldom individuals, but, usually,  groups. And, then, this morning, the  Book of Revelations It was hearing the account of a dream. It was as troubled and as violent, as you would expect from someone dreaming in a troubled and violent time, but there is a pattern and order to it and a progression. In the heavens which give meaning to this world, says the dreamer, all the seeming haphazard danger aroun