Name that song: dum dum dum dooby doo-ah

This morning we biked down Opanuku Road, turned right at the hairpin bend, and cycled along Ferndown Track. When I say ‘cycled’, technically it was more like a hike carrying bikes and on one occasion Andrew headbutted a tree, which was fun but admittedly more for me than him. At the end of the track we freewheeled down Grassmere Road.

 

Then we had to cycle back to the house.

 

Opanuku Road is about 3km long with a 400 foot climb from bottom to top. We were told this by some bloke we met in the Waitakere Estate and we took him at his word because he was wearing a cardigan and had his hair parted down the centre.

 

Andrew and I have different methods of approaching long uphill distances. Andrew goes at it in short bursts with fluctuating degrees of enthusiasm. He generally considers handlebars to be decorative in function and prefers cycling over obstacles rather than around them. His boredom threshold is so low as to be undetectable, so he likes to race me, making up the rules according to which of us is winning (he’s better at the downhill sprints, while I have the edge the other way). He spends a lot of time twiddling around with his gears – or mine, when they are within reach – and supports regular refreshment stops.

 

My approach is more methodical. Once my legs are following my own internal rhythm, I’m unstoppable.

 

Today, I was doing so well, my internal rhythm became external.

 

“Let’s have a little music!

‘On the road again, ah cain’t wait to be oan the road again

La la la la la la music with mah friends

Ah cain’t wait to be oan the road again-’

Hey! What else can we sing?”

 

“Puff!”

 

“‘Lak a rhanstone cowboy

Ba bom!

La la mutter mutter mutter star spangled rodeo

And mufflers coming over the phone-’

Hey, why aren’t you joining in?”

 

“I have to breathe.”

 

“Well, so do I-”

 

“Evidently less than I do!”

 

“Hmm, you might be right. Hey! Any requests?”

 

“Can you please, PLEASE shut up?”

 

“Ah now, come on. How about something by The Travelling Wilburys?”

 

“Can’t think of any of their songs.”

 

“Tom Petty?”

 

“Nothing’s coming to me.”

 

“Hey, I know! Roy Orbison!

‘Only the lonely-’”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“NO, it’s: Dum dum dum dooby doo-ah.”

Rambo XIV

This evening, Andrew and I  went to see ‘Rambo: Splattering Viscera’. We had an excuse. Er . . . yes, we called around to see The Outlaws but they weren’t there. With a couple of hours to viciously dismember with bloody relish, we decided to go to the movies, and it was the only 17:40 showing at Sylvia Park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Terrific movie, it has a bit of everything: torrents of intestines, vaporised brains, exploding limbs, catapulting heads. In one scene, Johnny rips out a man’s throat with his bare hands (I’m not sure why he didn’t just break the villain’s neck; he expended a lot of energy trying to gain purchase on the vocal chords with his stubby fingers).

One of the most remarkable aspects of the movie is how Stallone can talk with his lip curled over his nose.

Memorable movie quote:-

John Rambo: “Live for somethin’, or die for nothin’. <snarl>”

No, wait. That should be: 

“Live for nothin’,  or die for somethin’. <snarl>”

Never mind. Sylvester had difficulty with it too

Deeply disturbing Kiwi advertising /2

Deeply disturbing Kiwi advertising /1

The Fear

Today we went to the MacKenzie Country Fair – or Country Fear as the Kiwis would say. Margaret was showing two of her goats, Gaberdine and Sybil.

 

She spent the previous two days grooming the goats: shampooing and blow-drying; manicuring and pedicuring; styling their hair; curling their eyelashes; cutting their hoofs. She also administered what I can only describe as an extreme bikini wax. Last night, after an hour of ayurvedic meditation, she wrapped Gabi and Sybil in blankets and advised them not to roll around in mud.

 

In case you’ve ever wondered, there are a number of different attributes you look for when judging a show goat. They should have a long, straight back, pert ears, a prominent brisket and sturdy, shapely legs. I can appreciate these attributes in another species and even in my own; hell, Andrew’s pert ears had a lot to do with why I fell for him.

 

A show goat should also be ‘feminine’, which is not a word I would naturally associate with a goat or livestock in general, and have ‘proud teats’ that are symmetrical and functional - or ‘not wonky’ if you prefer.

 

Margaret had high hopes for Sybil. I don’t know much about goats, apart from they eat grass, they wee a lot, they bleat, they stand around looking demonic. However, even to my untutored eyes Sybil is a foxy goat. She’s shiny white and has shapely legs and a brisket that sometimes makes me gasp involuntarily.

 

Sybil had won every competition to date. If she won her class in the MacKenzie Fair, she would be crowned Awesomely Best Goat in the Entire Galaxy Like Seriously Ever.

 

However, Margaret feared one of the judges was planning to sabotage Sybil. Years before, she and The Judge had fallen out over a goat, igniting a violent feud the might and fury of which will resonate for generations, the flame of war nurtured and borne by her sons and her son’s sons and her son’s son’s sons – although she might have to have a word with Andrew who bypassed a unique opportunity to poke The Judge’s eye out with a stick.

 

Margaret didn’t have a counter plan as such, because she felt The Judge could not afford to overlook Sybil. If he did, he would be revealed in all his petty, cowardly, biased wickedness since Sybil was clearly head and brisket above the rest of the field.

 

As the fair approached, the intrigue gave me an ulcer. I’m relieved I don’t have an arch enemy; I’d be a nervous wreck, especially when I couldn’t even count on Husband to poke their eye out with a stick.

 

At the show, in a stunning display of villainy, The Judge proved himself a worthy adversary.

 

He awarded first place to Gabardine.

 

You have to admire the man. In that one moment, I truly understood the meaning of a pyrrhic victory

 

 

Margaret contemplates Gabi’s killer instinct

Do I look fat?

Morty

Craig’s mad dog

We can dodge the flying pigs

On Tuesday night, we stayed over at The Outlaws’. The following day, we always have the best intentions to spring out of bed with the dawn and return to Opanuku Road to start work by 08:00. Unfortunately, our plans are generally sabotaged by willpower (lack of) and hangovers (throbbing of).

 

Yesterday morning was no exception. Around midday, we were mooching around The Outlaws’ living room talking about plans for the Easter Weekend. These particular plans were safe from both willpower and hangovers, because we didn’t have any. Time’s grand design tends to bypass Andrew and me since we rarely venture into the real world; we eat when we’re hungry, go to bed when the eyelids start sagging, and have to look up the date on our computers. So the Easter weekend had lost much of its context and meaning for us.

 

Father In Law suggested we fly down to South Island to visit The Real Outlaws. With Brian behind it, the idea adopted an explosive momentum. Within five minutes Andrew was looking up flights on Virgin Blue. I’ve no idea how his father managed it; I could maybe achieve similar results after three straight years of remorseless nagging/cajoling/entreating/threatening/torture.

 

“You should make a real trip out of it,” said Brian, pacing around the living room while he plotted. “Go for two weeks! Three! Take a month! Bloody disgrace you’ve been in the country all this time and haven’t seen your mother.”

 

His pure, selfless outrage on Real Mother In Law’s behalf evaporated somewhat when Andrew booked a return flight the following Wednesday.

 

“But- but I’m going into hospital on Tuesday,” he said.

 

Brian’s transplant was scheduled for the Thursday with prep and chemo over the Tuesday/Wednesday. We said we would go directly to the hospital upon our return on Wednesday.

 

“Right,” I said to Andrew. “We need to get to the airport for 8-”

 

“The flight’s at 9:30!”

 

“Yes, so we should be at the airport an hour and a half- do you think that’s enough time?”

 

“What are you on about? We only need to check in half an hour before the flight.”

 

“Well, yes, but anything could go wrong. Missing passports-”

 

“You don’t need your passport for a domestic flight.”

 

“Expired visas-”

 

“You don’t have a visa.”

 

“Flying pigs-”

 

“We can dodge ‘em.”

 

“Flat tyres, traffic jams, over sleeping, general muppetry.”

 

“Let’s aim to get to the airport for 8:30,” said Andrew indulgently. “If we leave the house at 7:30, it should be PLENTY of time.”

 

Now, as you may know, I haven’t fully mastered public transport yet. If I’m not getting booed as I try to locate the last free seat on the aircraft, I’m the one chasing the airplane as it taxis off down the runway. But even I thought this was not so much cutting it fine so much as shredding it to oblivion.

 

I registered my objection via the formal channels and then I tried shouting a bit - to no avail. I’ve recently resolved not to nag Andrew because whatever about him, it drives me insane; so I gave up after half an hour.

 

Yet I still have an implicit faith in my husband. There’s a fair chance the man could persuade me to fly a cow to the moon. He sounds so intrinsically plausible that, even when the real outcome patently contradicts Andrew’s predictions, he still gives the impression of being right.

 

This morning, we left the house at 07:00hrs to drive to the airport and, as we neared the top of Lincoln Road, I knew we were in trouble. It took us 15 minutes to get onto the motorway and then we stuttered along averaging about 5 kilometres per day.

 

“There is not a chance we’re going to make it,” I said through gritted teeth.

 

Andrew reclined his seat and yawned.

 

“Nothing we can do about it now,” he said. “Think I might have a little nap.”

 

In the meantime, I was so wound up the windscreen was sustaining stress fractures.

 

“You know, I promise I’ll only say this once, but you DO REALISE THIS IS THE REASON I WANTED TO LEAVE EARLY?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”

 

“Pretty much. Oh wait a minute: sorry. Does that make you feel better?”

 

“NOT REALLY NO!”

 

“Hey look! These tissues are called ‘Handy Andies’. I never noticed that before. Do you think they were made especially for me?”

 

“I HOPE YOU INHALE SHARPLY AND SUFFOCATE ON ONE!”

 

“Ah now, that’s not very nice.”

 

“Sorry. But I’M <EXPLETIVE DELETED> SICK OF MISSING FLIGHTS!”

 

At this point, Andrew actually had the nerve to snigger.

 

Personally, I considered that a particularly daring move.

 

We arrived at Auckland airport at 08:59. As I drove towards the terminal, Andrew threw the bags out the windows and I did a commando roll out my door, leaving Andrew to slide across to the driver seat.

 

I heard the tyres squeal as I charged into the terminal and threw myself across the check-in counter.

 

“Two- huff! Two passengers to- huagh! Auckland to Christ! Christchurch!”

 

“Any seat preference?” enquired the assistant.

 

“On the 9:30 flight, if possible.”

 

It was and we got two great seats – although they would have been better had I not been beside Andrew. I will probably forgive him later this year

Some of the slower moving and/or dead species

Simon the spider

Dead Beryl

 Hwang Li

Mossie headbutting wet paint

Kung fu spider

I love living on Opanuku Road. The bush is green and gorgeous and the only things I can hear (apart from, occasionally, the Scottish bagpipes tuning up) are the birds and cicadas and Andrew pounding away on his keyboard upstairs, which sounds a bit like rain. Except when he’s repeatedly thumping the delete key, which sounds more like him wrestling a very large bug (I’ve had several opportunities to quantify this).

We share the house with a wide variety of mini crawly beasties, winged terrors and dermaptera. There’s a spider that practices kung fu in the bathroom after dusk, and a beetle that hangs out on the kitchen windowsill flexing his antennae and threatening the moths.

Some of the less welcome creepy crawlies are mosquitoes. Kiwi mossies tend to be the size of small dogs. Traditionally they make a bee-line – or mossie-line if you prefer hahaha - for me. While they still occasionally sink their proboscis in my person, Kiwi mossies seem to find Andrew more nutritious.

I’m pretty sure it’s one to two degrees colder up here in the ranges than down in the city. Even though it’s still summer, Andrew has some major competition going on with my hot water bottle. The house features no insulation or double glazing, so chances are it’s going to turn into a cryogenic chamber in winter. We already have issues with humidity, but leave the windows open most of the day and have acquired a couple of dehumidifiers which will – in theory – give us a mould-free winter.

Bethells Beach

Andrew ponders the impact dog rules will have on his existence

 

This is a photo of black sand

 

Wave effect

Frauen liebten seinen Punk

First impressions might last, but time itself has done nothing to reduce the MR2’s status as The Most Impractical Car in the World. After a trip to Mitre 10, where we drove home with a gas bottle balanced on my knee and mop sticking out the passenger window, I agreed to a second car.

 

Before you ask, I’m not sure why we didn’t sell the MR2. However, Andrew had a dazzling list of valid and entirely plausible reasons not to, which worked despite our having just blown the month’s entire grocery budget on two tyres for said MR2.

 

Vehicles (management and maintenance of) falls under Andrew’s job description, so I left it up to him to trawl www.trademe.co.nz in search of a second car. Despite my unhealthy relationships with vehicles, I had no passionate preferences as to choice of conveyance - unless we got a Mini Cooper, which evidently wasn’t going to happen.

 

Andrew strongly advocated a 4×4 manual diesel. He marketed the advantages as being economic on fuel; large enough to carry bicycles, mops and rubbish bins in the boot; or a dressing table or bookcase; or up to three additional passengers. Brilliantly, he pointed out that it would be an ideal vehicle for puppy transportation.

 

He didn’t stress how useful a 4×4 would be to tow his motorbike around – in fact, he hardly even mentioned it.

 

Husband short listed a number of Nissans and Toyotas and we went to view a couple, but they were selling for too much. We didn’t want to spend more than NZ$ 6000.

 

Andrew had an eyeball on a Toyota Surf on Trademe that was listed for NZ$ 6200. He thought the owner might let it go for NZ$ 5900 +/- and arranged to see the car the day before the auction was due to close.

 

“We need some way of communicating,” said Andrew as we drove to Mt Wellington.

 

“How about talking? Or is that too intense?”

 

“No, I mean when we’re viewing the car. Some means of, you know, communicating what the other thinks.”

 

“Like a code?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“How about: ‘The Pigs Are Flying’?”

 

“That might be a bit tricky to get into a sentence.”

 

“The monkeys are spanking-”

 

“Ok- NO- How about I ask you whether you like the colour? And if you don’t want to go ahead, you say ‘I’m not sure’.”

 

“Oh come ON - that makes me out to be a total girlie! Can’t I say something like, ‘The car burns oil’? Or: ‘Is the engine supposed to make that noise’?”

 

How much of a surprise is it that we had nothing agreed by the time we met Nishant?

 

We took the car for a test drive. Afterwards, Andrew opened the bonnet and surveyed the engine, kicked the tyres, fingered a rust spot, and crawled under the car and rolled around a while. Then we all stood by the boot making small talk.

 

“So Niamhie,” says My Beloved. “What d’you think- I mean, for example- d’you like the colour?”

 

“It’s fucking NAVY,” I said somewhat charmlessly. “What’s not to like?”

 

I mean, REALLY.

 

“Look, it depends how much Nishant wants for the car,” I said. Then I waited for Andrew to haggle like a Sagittarian car dealer.

 

And waited.

 

I was about to remind Husband about the airborne pigs when Nishant said:-

 

“To be quite honest, I won’t take less than $5000 for it.”

 

And I didn’t have to check the pig status to say, “Weeeeeell, all right then, I suppose.”

 

So we have welcomed a 1993 Toyota Hilux Surf into our family - shortly to be joined by a puppy. Andrew might have the edge on cunning, but I will always wear him down with sheer single-minded persistence

Róisín and Tim

Róisín and Tim are engaged! I am so thrilled and excited for them. This is the happy couple on the night they agreed to shackle themselves to each other for the remainder of dreary eternity.

 

Looks like they can’t wait

Balls the Subway franchise can be proud of

Although we signed the rental papers in early February, until recently we were still living with The Outlaws. The female component of our landlords, Ingrid, was sympathetic to our request to paint the house, so we intended to do so while waiting for our shipment. 

At this stage, I was having second thoughts about the whole painting proposal. The yellow and pink had grown on me – admittedly, in similar manner to mould or fungus - but I had adjusted to the colour scheme. However, Andrew was adamant. 

“I’m not living in a yellow and pink house,” he announced. 

“But Andrew, we’re only renting; we have no idea how long we’ll live there. And have you any idea what paint costs? Well no, me neither; but we should probably look into it. And it’s a huge job – how long will it take?” 

“Eh, few days. Hey! - do you think we should get a spray gun?” 

Ingrid donated NZ$ 750 towards paint, which eliminated one argument. Brett and the dog came to help the first day of painting. Kayla was of limited assistance - in fact, six weeks later we’re still picking dog hair out of the paint. Brett was impressed with the laundry chute extending from the top of the house to the washing machine in the garage. 

“There’s an access door on the floor below as well,” I said. 

“Hey – is Andrew in the garage?” Brett stuck his head in the chute opening and breathed: “I’m watching you!”, accompanied by several variations of evil laugh. 

It was pretty funny - but not half as much as when his retro Top Gun style limited edition Ray Bans flew off his head and straight down the chute. 

For the rest of the day, Brett rollered the ceilings. When he wasn’t splattering the carpet, he dripped paint in his eyes: 

“Ow! Dammit!” 

“If you did it properly, there wouldn’t be drips,” I said; then, after a pause: “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” 

“YES!” 

“Not much wrong with them then, is there? . . . See? Perfect working condition.” 

At the time I was on crutches - oh, the crutches? Right, yes. I pulled a calf muscle playing squash with Brett. My mother had warned me about him:- “Niamh, that boy is too young for you!” and I could hear her mouth pursing down the phone. 

“Mum, I’m playing squash with him, not DATING him,” I said. “And by the way, you do know I’m married to his BROTHER?” 

“You know what I mean,” she said darkly. “He’s half your age-“ 

“He’s 26!” 

“I thought he was 17?” 

“No!” 

“Still. He’ll run the arse off you. It’ll come to no good.” 

I think she put a maternal hex on me, because the next time I played Brett I pulled a muscle one game in. It was severe enough to make me think, “Oh, shite” at full mental volume - when I wasn’t thinking: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! OW! OW! OW! DID I SAY OOOOOWWWWW!” 

Brett felt sufficiently guilty to get me an ice pack and compression bandage, and lectured me at length about RICE and how my leg wasn’t above my head in that position and how talking was liable to impair recovery. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel guilty enough to provide on-call margharita. 

Three days later I still couldn’t put weight on my left leg, and was getting by with a grunt-powered hop. This was fine for short distances eg from the sofa to the TV or the living room to the fridge. However, it was impossible to perform an effective headless chicken routine on one leg. I leased a pair of crutches for a week since Husband was completely unsupportive. 

“Come on - what’s keeping you?” he’d say, five paces ahead. 

“I’m ON! CRUTCHES!” 

“Oh, yes. Can’t you go any faster?” 

“Why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you another use for a crutch.” 

So, that’s how I came to be crippled. As lunchtime approached, I was sent to hunt and gather for The Painting Men. Spotting a Subway outlet halfway to Henderson, I figured that would take care of half the lunch menu. I ordered Andrew a 6” Meatball Marinara Sub. 

“Excuse me,” I said as the attendant put away his ladle. “Would you mind adding another meatball?” 

“That will cost $1.50.” 

“You what? For one ball?” 

“If you want more meatballs, there’s an additional charge.” 

“I see. Let me make sure I understand: the number of meatballs per 6” Meatball Sub is four, is it?” 

“Er, I suppose so.” 

“Not three meatballs?” 

“Um, no.” 

“Not five meatballs?” 

“No,” he said, more confident now he was on firmer ground. “If you want more meatballs, there is an additional charge-” 

“Yes, I got it. Ok, I won’t take the additional meatballs, but can you remove those two half meatballs and replace them with big balls please?” 

“What?” 

“Well, if I understand you correctly, a 6” Meatball Sub should feature 4 meatballs. Presently there are two full meatballs and two half balls, which adds up to three meatballs. I want my fourth meatball.” 

“I-” 

“Please remove those tragically pathetic excuses for meatballs, and show me balls the Subway franchise can be proud of.” 

It’s been a while since I patronised Subway, and I can’t say I was impressed with the service - or the produce. 

“You know, I’m not sure those can technically be called ‘meatballs’,” I said, as the attendant slapped another meatball in the sandwich (at least he couldn’t spit in it since I was watching). “Really, they’re better described as large pieces of mince. Does Subway have a complaints procedure?” 

Afterwards, I spent three hours driving around Henderson trying to hunt down some booze. When I first arrived, I was under the impression you could buy alcohol everywhere here: grocery shops, doctor’s waiting rooms, school canteens, the local AA centre. Free bottle of wine with every packet of peanuts purchased! Beer vending machines on every street corner! 

Apparently, not so much. Eventually, I stumbled across King Dick’s Liquor up a shady alley. After all that effort – and time – The Men were disgusted when I arrived back with a six-pack of Steinlager Light. Brett threatened to go on strike. It took all my diplomatic skill, three lowfat turkey Subs and half my sushi to persuade him to stay

Relationship by phone

Yesterday Husband bought two telephones for NZ$ 100 on Trademe. I have no idea how to use either. It’s not that big a deal because Andrew walks around with one clipped to his belt – I know it’s embarrassing, but what can I do? He says it’s ‘handy’ – and I can never find the other, usually because Andrew’s sitting on it.

 

These days, when Andrew wants to speak to me, he calls me from his office.

 

“Hello,” he’ll say. “Is that Niamhie?”

 

“Speaking.”

 

“It’s Andrew here.”

 

“I KNOW, I can hear you up the stairs.”

 

Our relationship appears to be following the same route as Internet dating, only in reverse. Soon we will communicate entirely via telephone or MSN and won’t have to see each other at all

Wanky wanky shit bollox

When we were sorting out the MR2 and the Mazda – which we are fostering for a while – the insurance company refused to cover me without a New Zealand driving licence. 

It seems Kiwis are pretty relaxed about car insurance - amongst other things - and many only insure new cars. Allegedly 200,000 drivers in NZ are uninsured, one of whom we bumped into last month. Well, technically she bumped into us when Andrew, in full compliance with the Left Hand Rule, gave way to someone turning right and the car behind attempted to drive up the MR2’s exhaust pipe. 

Anyway. Being a former project manager and mildly obsessive/compulsive and my father’s daughter, driving uninsured was not an option. I’m not too concerned about potential damage to my car – that’s the Mazda, which is known as ‘my car’ or ‘your car’ depending on who is talking at any given time, Andrew or me, and let’s face it, it’s usually me so for the sake of simplicity I’ll stick with the former. My car still projects a striking olfactory presence, has more rust than metal and a dent in the front bumper where a rubbish bin misjudged Andrew’s sense of distance. 

No, what I’m worried about is some drunk, coked-up Kiwi pop star crashing into me and bribing the police with wads of cash and a few personalised autographs to allege it was my fault and hitting me with a repair bill for NZ$ 300,000 for damage to the bodywork down the passenger side of his Audi R8. (Agreed, that scenario is pretty unlikely: there aren’t any Kiwi pop stars. Let’s say some All Black high on testosterone and steering with his feet.) 

Happily and improbably, I had excavated my UK driving licence during the final site dig in Dubai. Carbon dating placed the artefact circa early 1990s, but it was valid until 2036. To convert it to a NZ driving licence, I had to take the driving theory test. 

Since it has been years since I’ve sat any sort of exam, perhaps it’s not surprising that I was nervous. It didn’t help that anyone I mentioned it to said, “Don’t worry, mate. Test is a piece of piss,” or “Nah mate, my cousin passed and he’s a blind epileptic autistic midget. Aw yeh, couldn’t even reach the pedals, mate. You’ll be sweet AS.” 

Eventually I bought a Road Code and sample test paper from the BP garage. Unfortunately, I didn’t do so well on the sample paper. I was gripped with false confidence by its striking resemblance to a piece of piss - and because it was multiple choice. Normally I’m GREAT at multiple choice exams. It’s a 50% chance of getting the answer right, since two options are usually misdirecting rubbish and can be instantly rejected. 

The very first question disproved that theory. I scratched three of the four answers before getting the right one: 

If you miss your exit on a motorway, you should:

(a) reverse back to the exit

(b) make a U-turn back to the exit

(c) drive on to the next exit

(d) stop and take a photo 

In fairness, I spent the last 10 years driving around the Middle East where options a, b and d are valid manoeuvres. 

I spent the next three weeks frantically swotting up on the Road Code. During this time, conversations usually went along the lines of:- 

Me: “Aw, f-!” 

Andrew: “What?” 

Me: “It’s ‘d’. Wanky wanky shit bollox.” 

Andrew knew all the answers, which was intensely annoying. I’m not talking about things like: 

What side of the road should you drive on?

(a) left

(b) right

(c) down the middle preferably on two or less wheels

(d) if you drive fast enough your car will become airborne which is technically not ON the road at all 

No; I’m talking about the sort of minutiae most normal people file in the dark recesses of their mind to make room for, you know, useful stuff. 

Me: “Ok, question 281: if a load extends more than one metre out the back of your vehicle, what colour flag must you tie on?” 

Andrew: “Permissible colours are white, red, orange or fluorescent yellow. The flag must be at least 30cm by 40cm in size. The load must be firmly secured and not touch the ground.” 

Me: “I didn’t ask you- that- the last things.” 

Andrew (primly): “Niamhie, you need to know this stuff.” 

“I do! It’s just I haven’t read that bit yet-” 

“What if you get a question about carrying a load on your car?” 

“Shh! I’m READING, you occasionally deeply unpleasant individual.” 

After a while, I was having dreams of parking on a fire hydrant in the middle of a railway crossing with out of order traffic lights. I was fully prepared, absolutely crammed:- 

“Andrew! Test me! Ask me anything!” 

“Aw Niamhie, do we have to do this again?” 

“You want me to pass, don’t you? Grill me on reversing into a driveway! Or the four second rule!” 

“*sigh!* Ok. If driving in a 50 km/h area, the horn-” 

“-on your vehicle should not be used between the hours of 11pm and 7am except in the event of an emergency. If you are having difficulty preparing for your test due to a language or reading difficulty, you should contact Literacy Aotearoa on 0800-900 999. Next!” 

“Niamhie-” 

“Come ON! Hit me!” 

“If a flock of sheep are coming towards you on a country road, you should (a)-“ 

“Offer the farmer a fair price for the best looking sheep. Ha ha, only joking. The answer is (d) slow down, pull over to the side of the road and follow any advice the farmer may give you. Although, I don’t fully agree with that. I mean, if a farmer were to give me a fashion tip, I’m not sure I’d follow it.” 

“All right, that’s it. No more.” 

When Andrew started having nightmares about beating me to death with The New Zealand Land Transport Road Code 2007, he packed me off to do the test. In the end, the most challenging part was the mandatory eye exam. I had to guess a couple of letters and the peripheral vision exercises were a joke. 

“Which light is blinking,” asked the 12-year-old Test Official, “left or right?” 

“Th- they’re both blinking,” I said. In fact it was like a war zone: I was seeing flashing lights all over the show. 

“You should see one blinking more than the other.” 

“Oh, right. The left. No! The right. No! The left. No-” 

“Ok,” she said. “What- I passed?” She shrugged. 

Apparently I must have, because she issued me a NZ driving licence

NZS3112

Our shipment arrived last week and we managed to get most of the 118 boxes unpacked the same day, although there are still a few left in the garage. It was very exciting:

“Andrew, look what I found!”

“Er. A potato peeler?”

“I know! I CAN PEEL POTATOES!”

It was wonderful to have our stuff and the place is starting to feel like home. Nearly everything arrived in one piece, although Andrew’s builders bum has a big crack in the middle. (Please believe me when I say how sincerely, earnestly and very deeply sorry I am about that pun.)

We spent an afternoon removing the European two- and three-pin plugs from our electrical appliances and refitting them with NZS 3112 plugs. Andrew ran the detachment and wire preparation line, while I screwed on the plugs. Who knew we had so many electrical gadgets? There were about 10 kitchen appliances, 8 types of charger, 5 computers/printers and 5 for Andrew’s projector and stereo system and we’re still coming across things we missed.

Some time later:

“Alright,” roared Andrew holding up a computer power cord, “who’s responsible for THIS?”

The cord featured a NZS 3112 plug on one end . . . and a European three-pin on the other

Wouldn’t recognise cool if my tongue stuck to it

By now I’m pretty adept at the ‘yehs’ – sometimes I’ve conducted entire conversations utilising only that word and a head-scratch - but I haven’t worked up to calling anyone ‘mate’ yet. I’m not sure whether it is a guy thing. I haven’t heard a Kiwi woman call anyone ‘mate’.

I’ve also picked up some phraseology for everyday use. Pronouncing satisfaction with something or someone: ‘sweet AS’ or ‘suh-WEET!’. When something strikes you as visually appealing, it is ‘stylie’ or, when particularly moved, ‘VERY stylie’. Someone who spends too much time cuddling their inner child is ‘emo (v)’ or ‘an Emo (n)’. For example, Andrew is ‘pretty much the diametric opposite of emo (n or v)’. 

I picked up much of my lingo from Brett. My brother in law is cooler than a frostbitten penguin - I think. See, I wouldn’t recognise cool if my tongue stuck to it. I’ve never been cool. At school, I pulled my socks right up to the knee; at college I spent too much time in the library and not enough in the Student Union Bar. Now I’m too old to be cool, but Brett leaves me in no doubt by frequently verifying I’m ‘waaay uncool, Dude’.

Brett wears things like pointy cream shoes and pin-striped shorts (thankfully not together). He can wear sunglasses on his forehead and make you wonder why anyone would wear them on their nose. He listens to ‘Yo Bro Yo Momma’s A Ho’ music and never, ever sings along. On a recent night out, he had the shirt ripped off him by a group of hens; after another, he sported a row of hickies up his neck. 

One night, Brett invited me out for a drink with his friends while Andrew was in Sydney. It might have had something to do with my offering to drive. Perhaps I should have made more an effort than throwing a sweatshirt on over a pair of jeans. I realised this when Brett surfed out of his room on a tidal wave of aftershave, wearing a t-shirt with a logo so ironic it nearly gave me anaemia. Regrettably, it was too late to do anything about my attire, apart from bitterly regret not applying a dash of foundation. 

The bar in St Helier’s was jammed to the transgressively revivalist rafters with pert, shiny young things. Brett’s friends fell into this category – some of them literally, since they were all in various stages of advanced inebriation.

“Dude! You’re gay,” Brett’s best friend, Dan, greeted him. 

“No, you’re gay.” 

“You’re gay.” 

“Dude, you’re SO gay.” 

“Maybe you should both deal with your manlove and, you know, move on?” I suggested marmishly. 

“Yeah, but he’s gay,” mumbled Dan into a pint of Steinlager. 

A couple at the other side of the table were engaged in a heated argument about whether or not he loved her, so I tucked into their mussels in white wine sauce and chips. Beside me, Rosie only looked at me to blow smoke – and she wasn’t even SMOKING. I can’t remember the last time I felt so old, or so way uncool, or so little like a dude - or so darn sober. 

After a while, arguing couple left sucking each others face, and Rosie was bodily removed by what I assume was her boyfriend. Dan and Brett, having thoroughly debated their respective sexualities, abruptly departed to investigate their heterosexuality with a group of girls. 

Since it was half an hour past my bedtime, I went home

The Lament of Angus the Brawny

A couple of days ago, I was sitting on the balcony on a citronella candle, enjoying the peace and serenity, when the harmony was annihilated by a sound like a cat being swung around by the whiskers.

“ANDREW!” I roared up the stairs, where Andrew was closeted in the cupboard off the bedroom which, at the moment, is serving as his office. “You hear that . . . noise?”

“YES!”

“What the fuck?”

“SOUNDS LIKE . . .”

“Bagpipes!”

We listened – well, we didn’t have much choice – while the unseen piper tweedled through a medley of bagpipe classics: The Lament of Angus the Brawny, The Rape of Loch Lomond, The Canny Knees of Lord Hamish.

A couple of days later, Andrew and I went for a walk up the road, and stopped for a chat with our neighbour. Dave has lived in the house 100 metres from ours for the last eight years, around about the time he renounced razors as being injurious to his face.

“So what’s the deal with the mad Scottish piper?” I asked, during the course of neighbourly conversation. “You’ve heard him, I presume? I like to imagine him marching dolefully up and down Opanuku Road swinging his sporran. The bagpipes have to be the most offensive instrument known to man.”

There was a deadly pause.

“That’s my son,” said Dave, his whole beard doing an outraged Mexican wave. “He’s in the Youth Band.”

“He’s really good,” I breathed fervently.

“Very accomplished,” said Andrew. I tell you: when our karma synchs we make an awesome team. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. “We’d better be getting along.”

Breaking through the culture barrier

Andrew’s sister, Lisa (on a recent visit north): “I might go to Sylvia Park and have a haircut. Can you recommend somewhere?” 

Me: “Well, there’s a place you can walk in and wait five minutes and they’ll cut your hair for $20.” 

Lisa: “And I need a tent.” 

Me: “You want to go camping? Yeah, Sylvia Park has outdoor shops like Katmandu and Snowgum-” 

Lisa: “NO, I need a tent.” 

Me: “Tent . . . ? Oh, a TINT.”

“Think I can touch my forehead!”

Father In Law is in good form – at the moment he’s in Sydney at the Formula 1 racing. Prior to harvesting his stem cells, he underwent a three-day dose of savage chemo. He subsequently lost his hair, which was a bit of a shock; it is easy to forget how sick he is. 

He might have retained some, except that he liked to demonstrate his accelerating hair loss to visitors by ripping it out at the roots: 

“Aw yeh, all falling out – look! Make a jumper out of that.” 

He has a ruptured disk in his lower back, but at one stage when his drug regime made him impervious to pain, he would high-kick around the kitchen. 

“Haven’t been able to do this for years!” 

“You know, Brian,” I said one morning, “just because you CAN – mind the light – doesn’t necessarily mean you SHOULD.” 

“Think I can touch my forehead! Ungh!” 

The other day he went for a routine heart and lung check. With both apparently in spanking condition, he doubled the smoking and drinking and tortures Rosina: “I’m in great shape! You should have the old bellows checked out – might have to give up the fags, old girl.”