friday am

Friday dawns cold and clear but, thank Keith, dry. An icy wind whips over the hill and we feel pretty sorry for ourselves.

Wednesday and the wacky suggestions (drop manure from planes: fire rockets through the windows; lie down in the path of cars) had been funny. Thursday and the funniest ones raised a snigger. By today we are well acquainted with and heartily sick of the Ten-Minute Activists—people who tell us to storm the (unlocked) gates and carry all (including Nasili, genial blond giant and Russian Olympic wrestling representative) before us. One of the T.-M.A.'s arrives a quarter of an hour before the NZBC and tells them all about our plans before leaving five minutes later We are puzzled to discover how far advanced our plans are when he hear the next radio bulletin.