Accidental embrace

My inadvertently predatory approach to Mike may have been embarassing but, on the scale of things, not half as much as accidentally hugging the hire car guy.

Deadlyjelly stalks her prey

I support the concept of hitching. I always take a good look at hitchers as I approach. I automatically accelerate when I see hitchers with no teeth, hint of hemp, nakedness, and/or excessive hair. Also any staring dudes hefting a blood-stained axe in one hand and a handmade sign saying ‘Axe Murderer’ in the other. And those that look like they have sweaty testicles.

Sometimes I’ll brake to pick up someone before I notice them flicking me the birdie in the wing mirror.

I reverse over those.

I rarely pick up hitchhikers.

Perhaps my elimination process is too rigorous.

Driving back to Christchurch from Blenheim, I spotted a hitcher on the outskirts of Kaikoura. I peered at him through the windscreen. He was standing beside a rucksack roughly twice his size, fresh faced, creases ironed into his shorts, positively brimful of youth.

I pulled over and offered him a lift to Christchurch. He was nineteen years old, coming to the end of a year travelling around New Zealand, anxious about what he would study in university, and so earnest I just wanted to rumple his hair.

Ten minutes later, we hadn’t got around to exchanging names when I came upon some roadworks. As the car rolled to a stop, I absentmindedly put my hand on the gearstick to shift it into neutral. Except that I completely missed the gearstick and put my hand on his bare knee instead.

It wasn’t as if my hand merely and fleetingly brushed against him. No, I’m sorry to say there was nothing ambiguous about it; I reached across with the customary aggression I apply to changing gears, and clamped my wrinkled, middle-aged hand firmly on his knee.

Of course I snatched my hand back immediately. In fact, I was so embarrassed I actually let out a little scream.

Mike (he introduced himself shortly after I groped his knee) was kind enough to forgive my indiscretion. At least, he didn’t rip open the door and leap out of the car and run away heedlessly leaving his rucksack behind.

Coming into Christchurch, I stopped at a fruit & veg shop to buy a bag of cherries for $8.99 a kilo. I KNOW! – can you believe that value?

Naturally, I had to offer some to Mike – I mean, I couldn’t just scarf them in front of him, could I?

It was only much later that the suggestive symbolism of the ripe, outsize, gloriously purple cherries occurred to me.

I am sincerely hopeful the implications either went right over Mike’s nineteen year old head, or didn’t make it past the cultural and/or language barrier.

Yet I suspect Mike’s retelling of the story in the backpackers lodge in Christchurch that night went something like this:-

Mike: Ich kaum entging mit meinem ganzen shirt. Sie war eine Cougar!

Avid group of twelve year old backpackers: Hur hur hur.

Mike: Hur hur hur.

Enough Technology™

‘No pets’ notwithstanding, the landlady agreed to make an exception for Jed. I think she was won over by the photo of him looking like a movie star not dissimilar to Johnny Depp.

He's not usually cross eyed.

I didn’t send her the glamour shot.

After that, the only question that remained was whether Marlborough had Enough Technology™ to entice Andrew to move. I’m uncertain as to how much exactly constitutes Enough Technology™, but it took Andrew a week to verify the existence of Enough Technology™.

Last Monday week, I embarked on a diplomatic mission to view the house and meet our prospective landlords. The most economical way to get to Blenheim was to fly into Christchurch, hire a car, and drive the 5½ hours north.

The house and surrounds are stunning. It sits on 15 acres of land which plunges dramatically down to the sea. All you can see for miles is sea, sky and an unpopulated forested peninsula across the bay.

Within 20 minutes of meeting Landlord and Landlady - fearful of another applicant bursting in the front door demonstrating their reliability, superior dusting technique and lack of dog – I had signed the tenancy contract.

So far, we have been incredibly lucky with our landlords. Considering Landlord and Landlady fed and watered me and put me up for the night, I think it safe to presume our luck will continue.

Unfortunately, the two days I spent there were quite overcast, so the photos I took inside the house didn’t come out well.

Showing them to Husband upon my return:-

Me: There’s a heated towel rail!

Husband: Oh wow! Is the view like this all the way around?

Me: Yes, and there’s a towel rail, which is heated.

Husband: The living room looks quite large.

Me: It is-

Husband: That’s a picture of the drive, is it?

Me: Yes. I think those are marigolds-

Husband: What the hell is THAT?

Me: What do you think it is? It’s a towel rail. I took a photo of it. To show you.

Me: It’s heated, you know.

Nice; or totally mind-blowingly awesome

Even when we are present in the same house – say, Husband upstairs in his office and me in the kitchen – the most effective means of communication is often email. From my perspective, email generates a faster response than bawling up the stairs and, crucially, there is a written record of any agreements or transactions.

The benefit for Andrew is eliminating the requirement to talk.

When I saw the property on Trademe, I sent an email to Andrew with subject ‘sigh!’ and the link. Then I was distracted bidding on a bread machine (unfortunately it went for more than $5) and pretty much forgot about it.

But half an hour later, when I went upstairs to bed and found Andrew flicking intently through the photos of the property, I felt a chill of premonition.

“Looks nice,” he said moodily, clicking on a picture of the sun setting over snow covered mountains. On Andrew’s emotional register, ‘nice’ roughly equates to ‘totally mind-blowingly awesome’.

“Suppose,” I said.

“Well? How about it?” he asked.

“How about what?”

“Moving.”

“Moving?” I repeated. Because honestly, this consideration had not seriously registered. I mean, yes, the house was lovely, but why would we want to move? After all, we are perfectly happy where we are: half an hour from the city, 40 minutes from beaches with black sand, about 100km of walking trails within biking distance of our front door. We have made wonderful friends, against all the odds (Andrew). We love the community along the road – apart from the miserable old hag who walks along the road and never waves and is incapable of cracking a smile even when Jed pulls faces at her out the car window. Skank.

Also, the thought of packing and cleaning and trying to dissuade Husband from attempting to transport 24 cubic metres of belongings on his rickety trailer was unappealing.

Yet the following morning, following a game plan hastily conceived the night before, I was on the phone to S enquiring whether the house was still available and whether the stipulation ‘no pets’ included dogs. Because if it did, we could always give Jed up for adoption.

Kidding.

Just.

Deadlyjelly on the move

At the start of summer, Husband started talking about moving to South Island. He brings the topic up every now and then, usually at the beginning or end of a year when he bemoans his lack of achievement (apparently living a happy, fulfilled life doesn’t count).

I was all, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure thing Honey. I’m with you 100%. No, wait; my mistake. Make that 110%.”

Because I knew he’d do nothing about it.

Now, if you think you can see where this is going, you are so wrong. Sorry, I hate to be confrontational, so let me rephrase: you might be right, except you aren’t. Indeed, Husband did nothing about it, except for threatening to sell my purple fridge.

No, no; much to everyone’s astonishment – in this context, ‘everyone’ comprising Andrew and me – this is all my fault.

It was last Thursday week and I was bored. I decided to spend a quality half hour on Trademe before bedtime. I did a few searches on chimineas for sale, Goretex, bread makers, chickens, any items in the shape of a pineapple. Then, seized by a relentless whim, I did a search on rental properties.

I wasn’t looking for anything specific, just listings of 2-3 bedroom houses for rent in the $200-$400 range in South Island that included keywords: “private”, “secluded”, “trails”, “bush”, and “heated towel rails”.

After viewing 50 properties ranging from spectacularly awful to oh-my-god-you-would-have-to-pay-me-to-live-there-and-even-then-it-wouldn’t-be-enough, I was about to go to bed when I saw it.

Unfortunately, the scenery is obscured by a big wet patch. Here is the view looking south:-

And north:-

Welcome to Marlborough country.

We move in three weeks.

Long melancholy tragi-horror

When Little Black Dress offered me a two book deal, the contract specified only that the second book should be a ‘short, funny romance’.

At the time, I had already started another novel. However, since Revenge of the Cow is a long, melancholy tragi-horror, I postponed it and started a book that featured more boners.

That covered the romance.

‘About Time’ is a sequence of snapshots over an extended period, narrated by both the male and female protagonists.

“Oh my goodness,” said my agent, when I told him I was writing half the book from a male perspective. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Maybe you could write his sections in omniscient pluperfect. Or . . . something..”

Indeed, for a long time I wondered whether I could pull it off. I’ve always considered my humour fundamentally female, deriving as it does from exaggeration and dramatic over-statement; and Conn’s personality was the precise opposite. Although I had a clear idea of Conn’s character (highly intelligent but pathologically incapable of normal social interaction), getting his ‘voice’ right – the clipped sentences and formal structure – was an arduous process that felt entirely unnatural at the outset.

At least my sense of humour was ideally suited to Lara’s free-spirited character with an uncanny ability to pick emotional wankers.

The story is about the concept of fate or destiny as opposed to free will/choice.

Also, of course, boners.

I’m not going to get a chance to post over the next couple of days, but in the meantime here’s an excerpt from About Time. I hope you enjoy it.

x

Getting on with the neighbours

Driving down the road the other day, we eased past a clump of cars crammed onto the verge.

Me: Look! One of our neighbours must be having a party. Why weren’t we invited? We’re nice people, aren’t we?

Husband: I think so.

Me: I think so too! What a suckfest. Hey – you know what we should do? We should have a party – and NOT INVITE ANYONE.

Husband: Great idea – oh hey, we already did! NOBODY CAME!

Me: HAHAHA! THAT SHOWED THEM!

Husband: Yeah!

Me: Yeah.

Plums

Stopping for plums on Henderson Valley Road the other day:

Me <parking bicycle and Jed>: Hi! I’d like some of your plums.

The Plum Man: How many bags?

Me: Just the one, thanks.

The Plum Man: Would you like two bags?

Me: Um, no thanks.

The Plum Man: If you’d eat them, you can have another bag. Free of charge.

Me: Oh! Oh, that’s terribly kind of you, but I have to cycle up the hill you see, and . . .

The Plum Man: So you’ll take two bags?

Me: Thank you, but no, really. I don’t want to carry too much weight or I’ll never get home-

The Plum Man: What if I put them in a box?

Me: I- I don’t- it’s just that- um- what?

The Plum Man: I’ll put them in a box for you.

Me: That’s- well, I’m sure they’ll be fine in my basket-

The Plum Man <looking horrified>: But they’ll get bruised! You can’t have that!

Me: Well, if you- if you think so . . .

The Plum Man <drops two bags of plums into an empty wine box, whereupon they promptly fall out the bottom>: Hmm. I’ll just tape up the bottom of it for you.

Me <scraping plum puree off the pavement>: Thanks.

How to boil an egg: it’s all in the timing

Last week, my parents set off on a road trip.

Even to minor excursions – going to the shops, picking up mail – Dad brings the same measure of care and precision as he might to, say, invading a small country. There are maps to be consulted, schedules to be drawn, checklists to be ticked, bags to be packed, socks to be pulled up.

Undoubtedly, Dad is thorough and organised – but he likes to keep his options open. When Dad is ready to go, he’ll stand around roaring, “I THOUGHT WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LEAVING AT <INSERT CURRENT TIME MINUS X MINUTES TO THE NEAREST HOUR>!” even though nobody can remember seeing that particular bulletpoint in the circulated itinerary.

Now, while Dad sits in the car beeping and occasionally bawling, “VERA!” up the stairs, Mum pootles around achieving very little in comparison to the impressive acreage she covers. She’ll tootle downstairs with a bag of apricots, a whisk and a bottle of suntan lotion, wedge them into a non-existent gap in Dad’s painstakingly packed car, then womble off again to hunt down picnic blankets or savour a cup of tea while she envisions Dad going mad with the impatience.

I seriously thought her life might be in jeopardy when, after Dad had been downstairs fine-tuning the luggage for twenty minutes, she decided to boil an egg. (You think I’m making this up, don’t you? Bear this in mind: I did not spring from a vacuum.)

“Why didn’t you boil it yesterday?” asked Dad reasonably and admirably mildly.

“You know how to boil an egg as well as I do,” responded Mum defensively and undeniably perversely.

I don’t know whether Dad has mellowed, or merely appreciates that attempting to increase the tempo of Mum’s internal beat would be an exercise on the same scale as bailing out a boat with a fork. He might feasibly have dissuaded her from boiling her egg, whereupon she would have undertaken some emergency darning or decided to make an omelette.

Husband and I follow a similar pattern when leaving the house. I have never been innovative enough to boil an egg, but I find that sitting on the loo is an extremely defensible position. Andrew has been known to rev the car in the garage, but thankfully these days he does a spot of motorbike maintenance instead.

Leaving for Onemana last Friday, the roles were reversed when Andrew first spent half an hour wrapping up a PABX, and then decided to check the oil differential on the Toyota Surf. Evidence suggests Andrew didn’t spring from a vacuum either.

We finally arrived in Onemana at four o’clock.

06:13 hrs in Onemana

Me and Jed, still asleep

Dad in his pyjamas at sunrise. If I DID spring from a vacuum, you can assume this is photographic evidence of it

Husband, action shot. What are you asking me for? No idea.

(L-R) Mum and Dad. Not sure what's going on here but it's undoubtedly smutty.

That's my mum.

This is me dad.

Dad shows off the famous Shaw toes.

Andrew, Jed and tennis ball.

Out for a walk at Wentworth Falls, Whangamata.

07:00hrs: the road home, just outside Onemana.

Chillin, Onemana

My idea of a perfect holiday: people you love, light glinting on waves, sun-scorched sand, damp togs, ice-cream melting down your fingers, camp chairs on a deck, salads and chilled wine, early afternoon siestas, spending not too much time with an excellent book, ambling along the beach at dusk, sandy feet, the mild Cajun heat of sunburn on your shoulders, falling asleep to a chorus of cicadas.

Andrew’s idea of a perfect holiday: propelling himself over rough terrain at vast speeds and making up words for ‘bored’.

Hard to find a middle ground.

Biting off more than he can chew: Jed attempts to fetch the swing.

Nuttier than a bucket of walnuts

Crazy times here in Casa del Deadlyjelly.

By ‘crazy’, everything is relative. Husband didn’t go on the rampage with a chainsaw – although that may be just a matter of time. I have not resorted to licking the walls – most likely a matter of time too; or a natural response to Andrew coming at me with a live chainsaw. Jed is madder than a barrel of frogs, but relatively speaking? No change there.

The copyeditor came back to me with her feedback on About Time, so I’ve spent the last few days clenched onto my laptop trying not to smear it in blood, sweat and tears. Mostly tears, which are at least more sanitary than the other two.

Apart from the time pressure (not all self-inflicted – I spoke to my editor the other day and she sounded mildly panicked about getting About Time into production) I’ve actually enjoyed revising the book. Which is a first for me: reading through my own work and not thinking it sucks lemons genetically modified for extra acidity. I actually felt quite smug. Not sure I’m over it yet.

Now we’re about to embark on a little road trip to the Coromandel. Normal service will resume on Sunday.

About Time

My publishers sent through the cover for About Time recently:

Officially, OH MY GOD I LOVE IT!!!!!

Unofficially, I hate yellow. But I’m not about to bite the hand that feeds me. Just nibble the fingers a bit.

For the last few days I’ve been working on the copyeditor’s feedback. This is the last hurdle before the book goes into production (no idea whether that’s the correct terminology, but it sounds good to me), due for release at the end of April.

Blue cheese & walnut souffle

I said, “So, I’m thinking of making blue cheese and walnut soufflés for dinner.”

I was vigilant about mentioning the blue cheese, since Andrew is only intermittently tolerant of the stuff. However, I was relatively confident his tolerance would embrace soufflé. I mean, who doesn’t like soufflé?

Indeed, when Husband heard the word ‘soufflé’, it appeared to result in retrospective amnesia. Because later, when I removed the softened blue cheese from the microwave, he said, “Eee-ew. Stinks. What’s THAT for?”

“The soufflé,” I said shortly.

“Ugh,” says Yer Man. “You didn’t tell me it was a blue cheese soufflé-”

I interrupted the extensive soufflé preparation to fix him with a glare, and snarled, “I DID TELL you- I specifically said- it’s a blue cheese and walnut soufflé. I was as explicit as I could get fully clothed-”

“You KNOW I don’t like blue cheese-”

“But you do sometimes!” I cried despairingly, waving the whisk at him. “I have to resort to TALKING to you about WHEN you like it, and even THAT doesn’t work!”

“Sorry, baby,” said Andrew solicitously. “Listen, I won’t have soufflé. I’ll just gnaw my lamb chop.”

“I just spent the last forty minutes preparing this-”

“I know. Sorry. <mutter> KNOW I don’t like blue cheese.”

“<mutter> Arse.”

Apparently – and I believe this - married women don’t live as long as single women. Earlier this evening I actually felt five years slough off my lifeline. In fact, by my calculations, I only have a couple of minutes left to live. If this is my last post ever, you know what happened to me. In the meantime, I’d better type fast.

I had blue cheese and walnut soufflé for dinner, with a rocket salad and red pepper vinaigrette.

Here is what Andrew turned down:

Sorry about the composition. The excuses: 1/ I am not yet practised in night photography 2/ it's a close up because I didn't want you noticing the tyreprints and scorch marks on the tablecloth 3/ I was distracted by greed

If you’re interested, the soufflé recipe is courtesy of Epicurious, here

The masked raider

On Friday as we drove through Swanson in the process of calling it a day, Husband suddenly exclaimed, “Look! A dead duck!”

He sounded so excited, I almost expected him to continue, “Oh, WOW! I feel so HAPPY! This is BETTER THAN SEX!”

Of course, the appropriate response to a dead duck alert – not that I’ve come across many – is along the lines of, ‘yeah, it looks dead all right,’ or ‘well, that’s what you get when you play chicken with cement trucks. I hope you’ve learned something from this.’

Instead, no doubt carried away momentarily by Husband’s enthusiasm, I shouted, “Quick! Stop the car! Do a U-turn!”

Narrowly avoiding the kerb and a stray recycle bin, he did just that.

“Er, I was just joking, you know,” I said, as he pulled up next to the dead duck and, hopping out, picked it up by the legs. “Woah- hey, I don’t want that thing anywhere near me. What are you doing-”

“It’s for Jed,” said Andrew, tucking the carrion into his footwell. “He can retrieve it.”

Indeed, Jed instantly picked up the scent – well, it wasn’t subtle – in fact, you could say it was pretty gamey – and went berserk in the back of the car. He attempted to bodysurf into the front and when that was not effective, contented himself with a spot of yodelling. If you haven’t heard Jed in full cry, check out his vocal contortions in the videos on this post.

I never thought I would end up the type of person who would be an accessory to picking up dead animals on the side of the road and stuffing them in a footwell. I don’t know; I just expected . . . MORE out of my life, you know?

Yesterday, we took Jed out to get acquainted with his dead duck. I was present in an official capacity to record the momentous occasion. Andrew was the duck handler.

To check check relative deadness of duck: hold upside down and shake. If it quacks, try again.

Husband and Jed keep a close eye on duck, in case it makes a break for it.

Jed poses with duck for the camera.

He's not usually cross eyed.

The masked raider: who needs vision?

Destiny’s grand design

We woke up to blazing sunshine yesterday, so decided to venture out to Riverhead with the mountain bikes.

“It’s going to rain, though,” predicted Andrew gloomily.

I ignored him, because:

a) Husband is a pessimist who often asserts things with no basis in reality or the NZ Met service; and
b) we’ve been together nearly 12 years (look, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to pay attention to EVERYTHING that comes out of the man’s mouth) (although barf always gets my attention)

While I organised coffee to go, snacks, finances and dog balls, Andrew loaded the bikes on the back of the car.

As we trundled down the drive, tiny pricks of rain settled almost imperceptibly on the windscreen. Along Mountain Road it started drizzling in earnest, intensifying to rain with a definite spatter effect up Candia Road. By the time we reached Swanson, it looked like a blizzard outside.

We pulled up outside The Station Café and made a dash for it across the carpark; me with a couple of old magazines clamped to my head, Andrew using the dog to shield himself from the driving rain. Sitting miserably moist and lightly steaming over a couple of coffees, we agreed there was no point biking.

Driving home, the rain eased up, the sun sullenly emerged from behind the bank of clouds and, by the time we pulled into our drive, the elements were entirely agreeable. So we could have gone biking after all.

Evidently, the cosmos had other plans for Husband and me.

These plans being investigating the leaking differential on the Hilux, and lying on the sofa reading respectively.

Depressing that destiny’s plans for us are so pedestrian.

Budweiser merchandise: extortionate

Me: I had a terrible dream last night-

Husband <eagerly>: Oh yes?

Me: Well, you remember Stuart?

Husband: Who – the guy you used to work with?

Me: Yes, him. So, I dreamed I was out with Stu and some of his buddies, and someone suggested putting money in a kitty. To buy booze, you know? So I handed over ₤126-

Husband: POUNDS? Wow, that’s a lot of money-

Me: I know! I wasn’t happy about it but, you know, I was on the spot and I was the only female and I didn’t want the guys thinking women are stingy. 

Husband: Fair enough.

Me: Yes, but a month later, I meet up with Stu, and he’s wearing a pair of Budweiser shoes-

Husband: Budweiser SHOES?

Me: Yes. Brand new, burnished leather. Lovely shoes-

Husband: How did you know they were Budweiser shoes?

Me: They had ‘Budweiser’ written up the side of them. Anyway, I realise that he’d used my ₤126 to buy himself a pair of fucking shoes. And all I got was a pair of Budweiser nail clippers.

Husband: That doesn’t sound like much return for ₤126.

Husband: Jesus, that’s a TERRIBLE dream.

Me: I know! I told you.

Screwed

In the litany of injury, Jed’s cracked dew claw went nearly unnoticed.

A couple of weeks ago, Jed and I were walking the Pipeline Track off Mountain Road. Jed skidded after his tennis ball and somersaulted into a rock, finishing up with a yelp. He appeared to limp a couple of paces, so I checked his foot.

There was no damage to the pad; when I palpated his paw, he just licked my face; so I investigated between his toes where he likes to store burrs even though they irritate the sensitive skin. There was no evidence of injury. Whatever the problem was, it didn’t stop Jed firing himself down the track after his ball, or impede his lifelong mission to nibble every blade of grass ON THE PLANET.

Afterwards, I was towelling mud off him and he flinched when I rubbed his foreleg. Looking closer, I saw his dew claw had splintered. Apart from slurping at it every now and then, it didn’t seem to bother him much, so I wasn’t concerned. Husband suggested taping up the claw; perhaps we should have done. But I just figured it would, um, grow out.

On New Year’s Day, we were woken by a high-pitched whine. Jed was obviously distressed; he paced around the bedroom, flung himself on the floor, rose again immediately, whined at the door. It was so long after the dew claw incident it never occurred to us that was the problem – until I noticed it sticking out at right angles. Although the claw was still attached, it was sheared right back to the bone; he must have caught it on something (maybe his teeth).

This is the dog who, after leaping off a six foot high sandbank and landing on his head, barely broke stride in his mission to retrieve his tennis ball. However, this time Jed was in a great deal of pain. He couldn’t get comfortable. A couple of times he attempted to lick his dew claw, but it was too tender. He yelped every time an air molecule brushed up against it. We tried to make him sit to assess the damage, but he retreated under the dining room table and refused to come out.

I have no problem with pain and can take it in my stride – so long as it’s not mine. My POINT is, I don’t get precious about my dog barfing, cutting himself, or peeing blood; but I felt sick at the sight of the gruesome angle of Jed’s claw and his obvious distress.

Husband was all for lopping the claw with our cheap, crappy, largely broken pair of dog clippers. In his defence, this is the same man who punched a hole through his lower lip with his tooth and wanted to put a couple of stitches in. Himself. I had to flush the sewing kit down the loo to deter him. If Andrew’s arm fell off, he would no doubt attempt to staple it back on if the hospital was more than 5 minutes drive away. Also assuming he could find the stapler – or fish it out of the U-bend.

All I’m saying is: Husband would not visit any sadism on his dog that he wouldn’t turn on himself and call masochism.

While The Butcher of Waitakere was distracted trying to locate the dog clippers, I called various local vet clinics. I wasn’t expecting much joy, since the entire country was closed from 1-5 January. However, one of the automatic voicemail systems supplied the telephone number of an out of hours clinic at 348 Rosebank Road (09-8207273).

“Well, a broken dew claw is not really considered an emergency,” said the nurse on the phone. “But it is incredibly painful for the animal. The emergency consultation fee is $125.”

“Hey, this website says the vet just rips it out with a pair of pliers,” said Andrew. “I have a pair of pliers downst-”

“No!” I said, grittily.

Of course Husband was just as concerned about his dog as I. In fact, the Swanson clinic was open the following morning, but Andrew opted to bring Jed to the out of hours clinic. But I have a feeling The Butcher of Waitakere is going to stick – at least if I have anything to do with it.

The vet advised putting Jed under general anaesthetic. He said a local involved an injection right by the claw which would be too painful – although I think he was referring to the possibility of Jed chomping on him.

“Did the vet give you an estimate?” asked the nurse. I was so anxious about our puppy I barely even heard the DONG! When I replied in the negative, she scrawled ‘No estimate provided’ across the consent form; evidently, I wouldn’t have noticed even had she beaten me savagely with the warning bell’s clapper.

When we returned to collect him two hours later, despite being groggy, Jed dragged me into the waiting room. I knew he was ok when we thought we might have to ask the vet to surgically remove Jed’s nose from a border collie’s butt.

$420.

That was the total of the itemised bill including five different types of drug: sedatives, anaesthetic and painkillers.

But even though I feel totally suckered, whenever I see Jed bounding after a tennis ball I can’t help feeling it was worth it.

I know, I know.

I AM a sucker.

Canine hypochondria

Jed is generally pretty hardy – not that he has much choice. He is used to being slung down the stairs, getting his ears slammed in the car door and being dropped on his head.

We might redress our rugged approach to dog rearing if Jed himself didn’t regularly head butt trees, slide along gravel on his face, and pass clothes pegs and entire Meccano sets out his rectum.

Recently, Jed has been testing the outer limits of his existence – along with the tensile strength of our nerves. About three days before Christmas, we accompanied our neighbours Big Al and Action Man, their daughter, Luscious, and their dog, Smurfy, to Bethell’s Beach. Jed loves the sea, to the extent that he will insist on swallowing gallons of the stuff. His digestive system is evidently an industrial machine, capable of processing a vast range of objects (see above). However, it appears to simply collect seawater, compress it, then fire it explosively out his arse.

After two hours tearing up and down the beach, Jed had an impressive case of projectile diarrhoea. This being pretty standard, we took him back to the creek and encouraged him to drink more freshwater.

Halfway home, he boked all over the car. We were thankful he wasn’t standing between us in the two front seats. On the other hand, we wouldn’t have minded had he adopted his favourite position with his head out the back window.

We pulled over to bail out the boot, which was awash with water, driftwood, seaweed, sand and small crustaceans

Thankfully Jed suffered no further ill effects from the drink, but the following day he was out biking with Husband and grazed the pad on his paw. Andrew called from the beginning of the Sharpe Track, and I embarked on an emergency rescue mission – i.e. I drove down the road and picked them up. Jed’s paw was fine after we sprayed some antibiotic on it.

But all this was just prelude to the real Eddie the Eagle stuntage. On Christmas Day, in order to embrace the traditions of our adoptive land, we decided to follow the rest of the country to the beach.

Jed usually mounts the Hilux Surf via the back door. Since the back seats have been up since my parents arrived, Jed now leaps into his diminished boot space via the tailgate. We give him a good run-up to the car, putting him in a sit/stay a few metres away, then cheering him into the boot.

Perhaps he got carried away by the crowd fervour, because this time he took off from about two metres away.

His front paws hit the target, but he wrapped his hind quarters around the tailgate, giving himself an atomic wedgie. The men gave a collective wince. As Jed’s front paws slid off the tailgate, the look of bewilderment in his eyes clearly said, “I had no concept life could be this cruel”.

We didn’t realise he had hurt himself until we arrived at the beach, when we found he had weed blood all over the boot.

You will be glad to hear that he was just badly bruised; bloody wee is apparently a common response to a bang in the balls (I wouldn’t know; I read it somewhere). Jed’s little dickie is now back to normal.

I wish I could say the same about our car boot, but despite detaching the carpeting and water-blasting, Vanishing and extensively airing it, it still gives off an aroma that is less than fresh.

Then on New Year’s Day, we had to bring Jed to the out of hours vet clinic for an emergency operation.

Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day!

Yep, that one’s still jingling around my skull, which – you might be interested to know – has the same acoustic effect as the shower.

Apart from the cacophony that is my cranium, our Christmas was a quiet affair. No exploding fairy lights, high-volume Slade or heated arguments over pudding portions. There was a bit of crackling, but it was more of the crispy pork fat variety.

For me, Christmas in New Zealand continues to be a surreal experience – and more so with the parents issuing regular updates from Ireland which was in the grip of the coldest winter on record. Of course, the Middle East was hardly a winter wonderland at this time of year – or even any other time of year – but December was the chilliest month. If you turned the A/C right down, it was cool enough to wear a scarf and drink mulled wine.

West Auckland apparently hit 34 degrees on Christmas Day, so the coldest we got was a light swelter.

Generally I have proved hugely adaptable to Kiwi culture, bending like an all-black in a spear tackle to the various concepts of: perky nana bars, boiling mud, black sand, honesty boxes, the right hand rule.

But I’m not sure I will ever get used to celebrating Christmas in the middle of summer.

Deadlyjelly’s New Year Resolutions 2010

First, some notes on the collective resolve for 2010.

If you pay attention, you will notice the list is a bit on the light side. This is because the emphasis is on QUALITY, not QUANTITY. I could give up smoking while getting fit, being a nicer person, earning more money and hand-washing my panties, but that’s just fluffing around wasting time and energy feeling like a failure – and anyway, I don’t smoke.

Instead, I examined the areas of my life that need attention, identified what is really important, and focussed on a small number of worthy and – I feel – admirable objectives.

Where possible, resolutions are expressed in specific terms. For example, ‘Be a better person’ is an ambiguous goal. What is ‘better’ anyway? And how much should I strive for betterment in order to really BE better in realistic terms? And if I were actually better, would I simply be a parody of myself?

On the other hand, ‘Whenever leaving the house, I will wear a spandex cape’ is a specific goal.

In further accordance with the SMART mnemonic for evaluating objectives, my resolutions are all measurable, achievable, repetitive, and er, totally something else.

Where no timeframe is given, the resolution implicitly applies to the twelve months comprising 2010.

As you can tell, a lot of time and effort went into this list.

Note: if you like my resolution model and wish to copy it, consider it my gift to you.

Deadlyjelly’s New Years Resolutions

1. Drink more.
1.1 Especially margaritas.

2. Give up snoring.

3. Avoid dogs that smell of perfume.

4. Show appreciation to stalkers (hi Cian! Thanks for stalking me! You rock! Happy New Year!).

5. Be a parody of myself.

Husband’s definition of corners

Me: Can you go a bit slower, PLEASE?

Husband: Sure (eases up infinitesimally on the accelerator).

Me: I mean, I don’t mind you tearing along the straights, although this road is pretty narrow. But I’d prefer you didn’t go charging around the bends-

Husband: But they’re just straight bits that aren’t quite as straight.

Me: GAH!

Fabrication

As a schoolgirl, my idea of rebellion was wearing a white shirt when the school handbook CLEARLY STATED IT SHOULD BE LIGHT BLUE.

It might not sound like much, but where does torching the physics teacher’s pet cat with a Bunsen burner get you? Or spraying ‘Fr Mulroney is a cock’ on the gym wall? I’ll tell you: expelled, and double detention with a wire brush and bucket of soapy water respectively. Whereas I was subversively picking away at the very fabric of authority via my choice of fabric colour. You’ve got to admire the symmetrical anarchy of it.

It gets better. When apprehended by a teacher, I would apologise profusely, except that – get this – I WASN’T REALLY SORRY AT ALL. Oh, how I used to laugh behind the bicycle shed later, unbuttoning that same shirt while the boys lined up to see my jugs in exchange for five quid or a king-sized Mars bar.

Most of that preceding paragraph is pure fabrication (still with the textile analogies). I never worked up the enthusiasm or morals to be much success as a slut.

But I did laugh, a LOT.

Many years later, I realised that wearing a white shirt was not the sartorial spit in the eye of The System it could have been because, while my defiant shirt may have been white in a previous life, it was more often than not an off-white blue. Although there were days my white shirt was shot through with brilliant vermillion streaks like the rising dawn – or more pedestrianly yet accurately, streaky bacon – which was quite the statement.

The statement being that my mother had washed my shirt with a red sock.

For many years – in the region of 25 – I thought a side effect of the washing process was that it turned white clothes grey. Sometimes it took only one wash; sometimes more. Occasionally white garments emerged from the wash still pristine but for a violent pink spackle over one nipple; or a joyous blue Catherine wheel effect radiating from the armpit.

For mum, laundry is an outlet for all the pent up creativity she never had the time to burn off with a spot of watercolouring, or extreme macramé away. I’ve never caught her at it, but I imagine her with a basket of dirty clothes before her front-loader, rubbing her hands, going, “So, three white t-shirts and some cotton knickers . . . in we go . . . lalala . . . what if I casually toss in this green scarf with . . . a blue singlet? – no – let me see – mmm lala lalaa . . . oh! – what have we here? ah, my maroon harem trousers . . . oh yes, I think that would be lovely and festive . . . LalaLAA. I wonder whether the expression ‘evil genius’ has been coined yet? Mwa ha haa. Mwa ha ha ha haaaargh.”

But the pinnacle of her achievements, the jewel in her crown, the Kleenex in the pocket of mum’s laundry career, was my first boyfriend’s Eric Clapton t-shirt.

In the fragile, tender days constituting the birth of our young love, JP brought me to see Eric Clapton play in the RDS in Dublin. It was the best date I’d EVER been on – possibly because it was the ONLY date I’d ever been on, unless you count Gary Hayes trying to excavate my tonsils with his tongue in the back row of The Grand, which I don’t.

JP and I snogged like we had gills for the entire duration of ‘Layla’. God, the romance of it all *sigh!* Afterwards, JP bought himself a limited edition Eric Clapton t-shirt from an Official Merchandising Material vendor. It featured a handsome globe overlaid with a giant guitar: a masterpiece of screen printing.

Evidently, mum still feels guilty about it – as well she should – because even now, fifteen years later, I’ll say, “Hey mum, can you-”, and she’ll splutter, “Look, why the feck was I feckin washing your boyfriend’s feckin Eric Clapton t-shirt in the first place?” and stick her chin out aggressively.

It was because JP sometimes lent me his prized Eric Clapton t-shirt to demonstrate his True, Deep, Abiding Love Which Would Never Die, and at the time I was living at home where mum was the only one who knew how to program the washing machine.

Not only did she dye JP’s Eric Clapton t-shirt grey (alternatively she might have been wiping down the fireplace with it), in a brilliantly devious manoeuvre she managed to shrink it as well.

Our True, Deep, Abiding Love Which Would Never Die did not survive my mother’s washing – or, for that matter, the juxtaposition of JP’s personality with mine.

Mine more than his, admittedly.

At least when we broke up and I compiled a cardboard box of JP’s possessions including the ruined Eric Clapton t-shirt, it was an appropriate metaphor for the demise of our relationship.

I was reminded of all this the other day, when mum put on a load of dad’s and her clothes. It takes a rare degree of skill to mangle clothes in our washing machine, since there is no hot water supply to the tub. Yet somehow, freakily, mum managed to streak dad’s favourite white t-shirt blue.

Bear in mind that, for over 40 years, mum has washed dad’s clothes. So you would expect that, picking his t-shirt out of the wash, a range of emotions might cross his face: futility, bewilderment, dismay, weary resignation, a half-hearted attempt at fury.

You would be wrong.

Bless him, dad actually looked genuinely SURPRISED.

This may be symptomatic of extreme delusion, but I like to think it’s reflective of dad’s abundant hope, optimism, belief in the inherent good of his fellow man, and his love for his wife.

Call me a sucker.

But he’s definitely a Canon

Reverend* Shaw, aka ‘Dad’: I went to church this morning.

Me: Really?

Dad: Yes. Eight o’clock service.

Me: Gosh, early start. You evidently take this whole religion thing pretty seriously.

Dad: Well, em. Yes.

*I’m not sure whether dad’s a Right Reverend, but he should be since he is often accurate especially when discoursing on fauna.

Not posting: the excuses

1. A walrus ate my laptop.

2. I have been frenziedly editing my second book, the aptly titled ‘About Time‘ (unlike the excuse above, this one happens to be true). Editing is a 5-stage process: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. This time around, it took only five weeks to reach Acceptance – which either means: a/ I’m getting better; or b/ my wonderful, long-suffering editor has finally attained Stage 5.

3. My parents arrived on an extended holiday from Ireland. I tell you, looking after them is a Full Time Job: the sleepless nights, the endless questions, the demands, the tidying up after them, the theft of my Auckland map and the scribbling on it. And you have to keep an eye on them all the time, or they get into everything.I never knew childhood would be so HARD.

4. For the last month, I’ve felt like I’ve been run over by a truck and dragged along behind it, then dipped in lightly whisked eggs and rolled down a hill strewn with glass before shooting off the top of a sheer cliff and plunging into a raging sea, then forced to sit and listen to Tom Cruise for four hours. (Note: this is largely speculative, since I’ve never met Tom Cruise so am not entirely sure what it’s like having to listen to him for four hours. However, I did watch Vanilla Sky i.e. I have a fair idea).

Some of the exhaustion is no doubt due to editing, parent-sitting and waging war on walruses. However, a large part is due to reasons I am not at liberty to divulge. I’m sorry; I hate being so coy. Wait, wait. I’ve just thought about that, and it turns out I don’t hate being coy at all. Au contraire, I LOVE being coy and regrettably I don’t have opportunity to exercise half enough despite having a unique talent for it.

The problem is that I hate other people being coy – especially on the Internet. While not in the same sort of league as avarice or sloth, it’s still an unattractive quality. You know like when you read someone’s blog, and they’re all: “So, I know something you don’t and – hey, guess what? I’m not going to tell you,” and you’re all, “Well, yanno, why bother saying anything at all? Why not just SHUT UP about it, you LOSER? I mean, who do you think GIVES A FRYING DUCK? I’LL TELL YOU WHO: NOBODY! YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT! AND I’LL TELL YOU SOMETHING ELSE – BECAUSE – UNLIKE SOME – I FOR ONE AM A DECENT, STRAIGHTFORWARD, CANDID TYPE OF PERSON: THAT’S THE LAST TIME I READ THIS CRAPFEST OF A BLOG.”

“COCK.”

Assuming that’s not just me, I truly hope you forgive me. Would it help if I called it ‘dramatic tension’?

No?

I will say: I’m not pregnant, no, nor suffering from some deadly or even medically recognised disease. Oh, here’s more: I haven’t been battling withdrawal symptoms from kicking my lifelong addiction to coffee – although you’d be getting closer.

Sorry, the coy crept in again there.

Chicken Killer

Before I can Move On to what’s been happening in Casa Deadly of the Noble House of Jelly and the list of imaginative not to mention elaborate excuses as to why I haven’t posted in – ooh – is it REALLY two weeks? – there is something I must address.

While in South Island, Jed killed a chicken.

I don’t think he meant to kill it, but unfortunately this was the result of his choppers in the chicken’s neck. Had the chicken squared up and issued an aggressive cluck, Jed would no doubt have yelped back to the farmhouse and hidden up the leg of my jeans.

Unfortunately, the suicidal chicken made a run for it with Jed in hot pursuit, predatory instinct on full alert code red.

The first I knew of it was my sister in law, Florrie, appearing in the living room door, somberly bearing what appeared to be a dead chicken. Look, I’m not an expert at determining whether animals are dead or alive. If it moves, it’s alive. If it’s plucked or in cutlet-sized pieces, it’s dead.

Although the chicken still featured feathers, it was largely immobile apart from its head flopping around and blood spurting from three canine-sized puncture wounds in its neck.

Florrie reported that she found Jed standing over the chicken with its neck in his jaws. That may be the case, but I’m almost certain Lottie – Florrie’s pooch and Jed’s sister – was the real brains of the operation. Jed was merely the hired hand, the blunt instrument in Lottie’s diabolical plot.

However, the unspeakable horror was only winding up to its devastating crescendo. Because – and this is not a word of a lie – although I truly wish it were – Florrie proceeded to administer mouth to beak resuscitation. I have rarely witnessed anything so chilling. It looked like she was trying to inflate the chicken rather than revive it.

The chicken revived only long enough to give a loud croak.

“Um, Florrie,” I said, standing well back in case the chicken’s chest exploded, “I think the chicken’s toast.”

Transcendental widdling

The highlight of the Royal New Zealand A&P Show in Christchurch yesterday was a widdle.

Had it not been blowing a 100kph southerly with heavy showers, the outcome might have been different. Although the inclement weather was hardly the fault of the organisers, the abysmal organisation was. Signs for carparking were insufficient and inaccurate. The two officials we asked had never heard of goats, never mind where they were exhibited.

I suppose the trading area was quite good. For a while, I wondered whether the contraption that picked up walnuts was the highlight of the show. I mean, it was admittedly INGENIOUS: a little wire ball at the end of a stick which you wheel about the ground, and IT COLLECTS WALNUTS (please note: there have to be walnuts on the ground to begin with). However, it seemed a bit . . . well . . . pointless. I mean, a device that picks up walnuts? You know, if it picked up – say – coins or spilt vodka, THEN I would have been impressed.

The agricultural community is obsessed with peeling vegetables. There were at least five stalls devoted to the sale of vegetable peelers. I noticed that whenever one of these appliances was demonstrated, the potatoes used were fresh, large oval ones. To me, this constitutes an unfair and unusual advantage. Again, perhaps if demonstrators had used old, wrinkled, half-rotten spuds, the outcome would have been different.

But they didn’t.

Now, it should be noted there were extenuating factors surrounding my trip to the loo. Even before I arrived at the show I needed to pee– and more after circling the show grounds twice trying to locate the members’ carpark. However, I was determined not to avail of the bathroom facilities typical of these types of events: the draughty plastic portaloos overflowing with fly-infested faeces, any evidence of toilet paper being plastered to the walls with some humanly derived substance.

I knew I had enough willpower not to wee. However, four hours of exponentially increasing clenching was starting to make my teeth ache.

I approached the portacabin with a sense of fatalism. And it was LOVELY! Carpeted floors that were almost clean; a light fragrance playfully redolent of Harpic; fully stocked toilet paper dispensers with smooth dispensing action; lashings of pink hand soap washed down with warm water.

It was such an awesome experience, I went again half an hour later even though I didn’t need to.

Zombie cows

From the time Jed was four months old, we have shared a ritual on the Outlaws’ farm in Oamaru. Around mid-afternoon, we stare down the goats in the first paddock, cross into the second paddock, walk through the third paddock, then on to the creek in the fourth paddock.

Two days ago, I noticed the livestock were loose in the third paddock.

“We won’t disturb the cows, will we?” I asked Husband.

In fact, I got the subjects confused. The question I should have posed was, “The cows won’t disturb us, will they?” One way or another, Husband would probably still have responded, “Nah, no worries.” In either case he would have been wrong, but in the second he would have willfully endangered our lives. So it’s just as well I didn’t pose the second question, because casting the lives of his wife and beloved dog into mortal peril?

That’s not nice.

Whenever I think about cows – which is not that often – my overall impressions are negative. They smell, they project effluence, they have freaky jaws. Otherwise, I have never harboured actively violent antipathy towards the bovine community. And I have never feared cows – until now.

Jed and I strolled down the first paddock, into the second, and passed into the third. At first I didn’t notice, because I had a squirming puppy by the collar. Jed has never been under any disillusion that cows are vicious, savage creatures. Personally, I’ve always thought they were just willfully stupid. I suppose the end result is much the same. But halfway across the field, I was alerted by a stealthy rustle of grass.

When I looked around, half the herd – or about 125 tonnes of beefsteak – had formed a semi-circle of doom behind us. Their cold, dead eyes stared glassily at me, chilling the cockles of my heart.

My mother is originally from farming stock, so I can speak a little pidgin Cow. “Gerraway back!” I bawled. Unfortunately, it appears Kiwi cows do not understand farming Irish. They retreated a pace, only to return two. One was trying to organize a mass flanking maneuver to cut off our escape entirely.

Well, I didn’t want to show fear, in case it started a stampede. However, I stepped up the pace a bit. One cow was rushing my puppy; Jed had a front paw through his collar, and his torso wasn’t far behind; he was desperate to get out of there, and I could fully sympathise. I felt the fermenting, fetid breath of 450 cows hot on the back of my neck.

I’m telling you, the last 200m felt like MILES. Any second I expected to get karate-chopped by a hoof in the head. I can’t tell you how many times I broke out in a cold sweat.

I returned to the farm via the road.

My life in a parallel universe

The last week has been a heady whirl of glamorous parties, premieres, photo shoots, and jet setting off to Monaco to sip truffle daiquiris on a super yacht with Caroline and the lads . . . No wait, that’s someone else’s life.

In mine, Husband returned and we spent the next three days making sweet sweet love when we weren’t enjoying candlelit dinners and floating candles on the balcony. Needless to say, we are not only exhausted, but also several kilos lardier! No wait, that’s not my life either – although it sounds like it should be only without the lard.

I’ve been busy writing my fifth runaway blockbuster, while engaged on an exhilarating schedule of global book tours, tv shows and – woah! Have I stumbled into a parallel universe? Hey – maybe it’s a future timeframe! Ooh, exciting. But in the meantime, I’ve been editing my second novel following feedback from my editor.

Two days after Husband arrived home, we embarked on an exciting round the world tour of many different, exotic locations to experience new things and see sights we had never seen before, like Niagara Falls.

Well, we flew down to see the Outlaws in Oamaru.

Close enough.

Today Jed and I were menaced by a herd of zombie cows.

Sadly, that one is true.

Star Trek 2009

Q: How many ears does Captain Kirk have?
A: Three. The left ear, the right ear, and the final frontier.

On Saturday evening, Jed and I went to MarkJ’s house, where his brother supplied the latest Star Trek movie. It was an amusing, entertaining film, and if you think I’m only saying that because I don’t know MarkJ’s brother well enough to slag off his taste in movies, I appreciate your dilemma. You’ll have to use your discretion. Sorry.

Star Trek 2009 is a reboot of the Star Trek franchise, telling the back-story of the crew and the series of flukes via which James Tiberius Kirk comes to be captain of the Starship Enterprise.

No idea what the plot is about. It involves a fleet of Romulans. I’m not sure why the producers didn’t choose more compelling intergalactic villains for the franchise premiere – for example, the horny-headed Klingons; or the terrifyingly ridiculous-looking and inalienly strong Gorn. But there you go.

Anyhoo, the Romulans pootle around the universe applying impressive special effects to planets. Apart from that, even Eric Bana’s freakishly small head fails to make the Romulans look the least bit threatening. They have no exoskeletal anomalies, no surplus proboscises, no multiple recessed jaws; they are even a standard Caucasian colour. Although their blood is greenish-yellow, there isn’t half enough of it splattering about the set.

I suppose they do have impressive cranial tattoos – but then so do lots of people – I mean, it’s hardly chillingly blood-crawling.

Q: How many Star Trek landing party members does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Only one, but the extra red-shirt will die in the attempt

The movie introduces Kirk as a foetus, and unfortunately the character does not appear to mature in any measurable way throughout the course of the movie apart from a rudimentary mastery of his motor functions. Impossible as it may seem, Chris Pine’s incarnation of Kirk made me wistfully yearn for William Shatner.

Even Uhura, embarking on her mission to boldly sleep her way to the top, keeps Kirk firmly at bargepole’s length. Which tells you all you REALLY need to know.

But since you asked nicely, I will of course tell you more.

Kirk is so whiny and boisterously annoying, you want to ground him until he reaches adulthood – about 20 years. The only new life forms he is interested in seeking out are the female variety (demonstrating a disturbing fetish for bottle-green redheads).

Q: Does Kirk become the first cadet in the history of the Academy to outwit the Kobayashi Maru Simulation with his blistering intelligence and encyclopaedic knowledge of Klingon war strategy?
A: No, Kirk CHEATS.

Q: Following his suspension from the Academy, does Kirk unexpectedly disguise himself as the First Officer and blag his way on board the USS Enterprise?
A: No, he is smuggled aboard by his friend.

Q: Does Kirk detect a Romulan trap using his powers of deduction and encyclopaedic knowledge of Romulan war tactics?
A: No; by pure chance, he overhears Uhura talking about it in her underwear (although the fact that he recalls the information at all with Uhura clad only in her underwear is undeniably admirable).

Even worse, Kirk’s bravery does not translate to skilled combat.

Q: When a Romulan is stamping on Kirk’s fingers as the rest of him hangs from the edge of a drilling platform, does Kirk lunge for his assailant’s ankle and pull himself back onto the platform while simultaneously hurling the Romulan to his death?
A: No, Sulu saves Kirk’s dangling ass with a timely sword thrust.

Q: When another Romulan is in the process spanking Kirk with nothing more than his fists and a big sneer, does Kirk distract him with a talking newt before bludgeoning the Romulan’s head to a fine paste with his thumbs?
A: No, he pulls the Romulan’s own gun on him.

And this is the permanently pubescent person chosen to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations and boldly pilot the USS Enterprise where no man has gone before.

In fact, the only positive character attribute exhibited by Kirk is a totally unfounded bravery.

Well, Kirk might be brave, but so is Rambo, and I wouldn’t hand the reins of the Starship Enterprise over to him.

Although I would if the only alternative was Kirk.

The vaunted friendship between Kirk and Spock is made possible only by virtue of Spock’s paucity of emotion.

For some reason, the story features two Spocks. Obviously, this is a good thing – but replacing Kirk with Spock altogether would have been better still.

Spock’s ears appear to have been ‘modernised’ into immobile wax sculptures on either side of his head. Why? WHY? What was wrong with Spock’s original aural devices? I’ll tell you what: NOTHING. Spock’s ears used to be sublime perfection: those delicate pinnacles of silicon pointiness that looked like they might fly off into the control console at the slightest hint of turbulence; that, when you flicked them with your index finger, made a satisfying thwippety thwippety sound that resulted in a cochleal orgasm.

Q: How can you improve on that?
A: You can’t.

Terrific movie; well worth a watch.

Physiggomai

Here are some of the treasures I discovered during a recent expedition across the Internet.

• The literal translation of Kloskvaltare - Swedish for best-selling book - is: ‘it knocks the sales booth over’.
• In Italy, Salma Hayek might be described as a baffona or ‘attractive mustachioed woman’.
• In Germany, a young man with suspiciously good manners is called Tantenverfürhrer, or ‘aunt seducer’.
• Gwarlingo is Welsh for the the rushing sound a grandfather clock makes before striking the hour.
• In Namibia, Hanyauku means walking on tiptoe through warm sand, which is a lot less syllables than ‘walking on tiptoe through warm sand’.
• Jayus is Indonesian for someone who tells a joke so unfunny you can’t help laughing.
• In Scotland, to tartle is to hesitate introducing someone whose name you can’t remember.
• And if you find yourself thinking lustful thoughts when presented with a head of garlic, you are probably physiggomai – ancient Greek for ‘excited by eating garlic’. I wonder how you pronounce that?

I have no idea why no handy English words have been coined to match the rest of these expressions