Stag’s Roar - photos

Here are some pics from the orienteering event at Stag’s Roar last Sunday - photos courtesy Haze - thank you!

 

The Team: Haze, me and Andrew - sweaty yet triumphant.  Rare image of Andrew almost smiling.

 

Andrew demonstrates his internal compass, thankfully with his arm. It looks as if I’m biting him, but I’m not.

 

 

Me, pushing in on the tree’s photo op.

 

John orienteering.

 

Fungus: mushy

Herbert the Duck

Herbert was a happy little duck. He liked sunshine. He and his brothers and sisters paddled in the river, snapping at flies and dancing shadows.

But Herbert preferred the rain. He and his brothers and sisters played with the raindrops and fished for minnows. They quacked and stuck their little ducky tails in the air.

One day, their mother said: “Children, it’s time you learned how to fly.”

Herbert was scared. What if he was not able to fly? What if he dropped out of the sky?

Herbert was right to be scared, because one day he copped a gutful of lead and died.

The End

Duck cemetary

[WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES]

When I first met my Mother In Law and Stepfather In Law, they lived on top of a hill in Te Anau. Dusk was falling as Husband drove the rental car up the 70° driveway. We rounded a corner and there, silhouetted against the lowering sky, was a tractor with its digger raised. At the corners hung two bloody carcasses twirling idly in the breeze.

If the moment had a soundtrack, it would have been violin strings plucking up a scale.

“What the . . . what the <expletive deleted> is THAT?” I said, pointing a quivering finger.

“Drain the blood, meat tastes better,” responded Andrew as if that explained the matter.

This was my gentle introduction to a world of killing sheds, gut holes, knocking on the ‘ead, projectile pus and anal probing. I am now accustomed to eating breakfast while Margaret drains a doe’s abcess, or sitting on the living room sofa shooting possums out the window when the milking’s done. It has got to the stage where I’m all: ‘Dead deer? Pass the knife. And the steel’.

Given the way I have embraced country life, I was gutted (when Margaret or Craig are involved, it is important to point out that this is not in a literal sense) that I wasn’t allowed partake in the duck shooting. As a female, I was present in a purely supportive capacity: food preparation and provision, construction and materials, transport and logistics, underwear technician and specific totty.

I got over it fairly quickly when I realized how much hanging around is involved in duck shooting, allied with the ambient temperature in South Island at this time of year.

Yesterday, the Duck Shooters, their support team and associated groupies, went to cut broom to conceal the blind - or mai mai as it is called in these parts. Afterwards, the Duck Shooters modeled their camouflage suits, which essentially make them look like mouldy Yetis.

The Duck Shooters set off at 05:00 this morning. I was supposed to cook breakfast and massage Andrew’s trigger finger but, well, I was asleep.

Since Andrew wouldn’t pose for an official portrait in his Yeti suit, I am going to have to go with this one featuring only the pants:-

Terrifying: Andrew’s killer instinct

[You were warned about the graphic images.]

 

Duck cemetery

 

Morty and Bambi: Craig’s dog confuses deer for duck

 

In keeping with the horrifying theme: abalone mince. Actually tastes pretty good

Responsibility

There have been a couple of times recently when we’ve left the house and forgotten to close the garage door behind us.

“Oh crap,” I said, driving home from our walk this afternoon. “Did we close the garage door?”

“I did,” said Andrew.

“Oh, good.”

“If both of us are going out,” said my husband, “I think the passenger should close the garage door.”

“Fair enough-”

“Except when I’m the passenger. Then it should be you.”

“Hey! Hang on a minute; basically, you’re saying it should be my responsibility.”

“Well, let’s face it: you are the most responsible party in this relationship.”

“Yes, but-”

“Don’t even try and talk your way out of it.”

“So, are you saying you’re irresponsible?”

“No. Just that you’re MORE responsible.”

Husband fully equipped for hiking (yes, that’s an umbrella in his right hand). Photos of Andrew’s face are pretty rare; he doesn’t stay still long enough and he is also pretty mean about the photo ops

 

Niamh and the tree

 

Down by the river

 

Vaseline shot: me undaunted by Andrew waving a camera in my face after a cryogenic swim

Storms

The view from our balcony this afternoon after a thunderstorm that lasted all day yesterday and today

Mr Wingo

Kiwi man uses hedgehog as a weapon

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7334233.stm

You have to be taking the mickey to write:-

It was unclear whether the hedgehog was still alive when it was thrown, though it was dead when collected as evidence.

My life is awesome

‘Breakthrough to Success’ involved a number of exercises to practice the faith, reinforce The Message and obscure the fact that we spent three days covering material that would comfortably fit into half an hour.

 

One exercise involved identifying ‘limiting beliefs’ in your life. Afterwards, Guru Howard asked for volunteers to share their revelatory, life-altering breakthroughs. The microphone was passed to Bruce.

 

“Kia Ora, BRUCE!” roared 1000 people.

 

“What’s your limiting belief, Bruce?” enquired Guru Howard.

 

“I hate myself, I hate my life, I hate my family,” said Bruce, “and I wish I had been born a woman.”

 

I laughed so hard I fell off my seat – until I realized I was the only one: the guy was serious.

 

“I see,” said Guru Howard. “Eeeeeer. And how does this affect your life, Bruce?”

 

“Quite a lot,” said Bruce. “Like, I’ll do something I’m proud of. Like painting the spare room. And then I’ll go and ruin it all by saying something stupid to my wife or beating my kids. They hate me and I hate them. Not just them - I hate everything.”

 

“Umm,” said Guru Howard. “So, what’s your limiting belief, Bruce?”

 

“I think my limiting belief is that I’m unlovable,” said Bruce.

 

I could see where he was coming from.

 

“Give him a big hand, folks! Yeah! Bruce!”

 

At the time, I was sitting beside an enormous man in a vest, who was so overcome with emotion he had to resort to deodorant.

 

“I’m a but whuffy, time for the smullies,” he informed me, before spritzing strawberry scented body spray all over the two of us. I had coped with his fetid underarm stench, but when it combined with the jagged strawberry smell, I seriously considered throwing up.

 

“You will not puke, you will not puke,” I internally positively self-affirmed. “Wait! No! I feel entirely healthy! My stomach is in top form! There is no stomach acid whatsoever – argh!”

 

Two minutes later, we were required to hug the person sitting next to us.

 

Now, THAT was a life-changing experience.

 

Later, we were split into pairs to discuss where we were MOST STUCK in our lives and WHY. Rebecca went first:-

 

“I’m- I’ve- my relationships are awful. My relationship with my family is- well, if things don’t change, that’s it; it’s over between my husband and me. This is kind of the end of the line. I- we can’t find anything nice to say to each other any more. And I’m taking it out on the kids and I know it’s so unfair, I feel dreadful. So I think- I think I need to change my approach and be more loving and change how I think about my family and show them I cherish them.”

 

I actually gave this stranger a spontaneous, totally unprompted hug before it was my turn.

 

“Um, ok, well, I’m a writer. And I’m having trouble writing. Ah, that’s kind of it, really.”

 

At least there is one thing I have learned from ‘Breakthrough to Success’:

 

My life is awesome

I love this stuff! WOO!

All that is valuable in human society depends upon the opportunity for development accorded the individual

- Albert Einstein

 

Much of The Message preached by Breakthrough to Success was that, if you have enough self-belief, enough faith, if you WANT IT ENOUGH, all that you desire will be yours. Forget education and intellect, personality or circumstance.

 

Guru Howard had a number of illustrative examples:-

 

“I remember this guy, Dave was his name – probably still is his name - Dave came to one of our seminars, ‘Performance Revolution’ – there are forms outside if you want to sign up for that – this guy had Alzheimer’s, real bad - see the back of the auditorium there? It would take Dave 15 minutes to make his way from that exit door to the stage right here - it was that bad. But over the course of the seminar, his Alzheimer’s – it disappeared! Gone! Once Dave released those limiting beliefs, his body HEALED ITSELF.”

 

I think skepticism set in when, after two days, my arse had got no smaller.

 

“There was this woman, Mindy, came to ‘Breakthrough to Success’. She was living in a trailer park. Fallen on hard times – she didn’t always live in a trailer park – but her partner had died - Mindy was not in a happy space – what was she not in? A happy space. Again, at level 10: a HAPPY SPACE – that’s right - Mindy came to ‘Breakthrough to Success’, and her whole life changed. She came up to me after and said, ‘Chris, Chris! You changed my life’. Mindy wanted to go on ‘Fast Track to Success’, but she had no money. Maybe two weeks later, Mindy got the exact amount deposited in her bank account by an anonymous donor! Awesome, huh! And Mindy went on to do our ‘Billionaires Bootcamp’ course in Hawaii, and she’d always- her lifelong dream was to own a house, to do good stuff, you know, charitable works – and this guy on the course, he BOUGHT HER A HOUSE! How awesome is that?”

 

It is arguable whether Guru Howard is a better trainer or salesman – probably depends on one’s individual perception of reality. Many of the participants were attending the seminar free, and Guru Howard has to make his millions of dollars somehow.

 

“Now, ‘Performance Revolution’ – can I tell you about ‘Performance Revolution’? Thank you! Turn to person next to you and give ‘em a high-five and say: ‘I love this stuff!’ Yeah! ‘Performance Revolution’ is if you want to have leadership skills for influence and persuasion. Now, it’s normally $6500, but we have a special offer for you, folks – if you bring a friend, we’ll let the two of you attend for $6500! Is that good or good? It’s FANTASTIC! All right!”

 

Here’s MY perception of Guru Howard’s reality:

 

“You can make millions – if you pay me lots of money.”

 

“Now, special offer, ‘Passion for Profits’ – first book I ever wrote – it’s $47 – and you might think that’s a lot for a book, but I’ve gotta question for you: if it makes you $20,000, would you say that’s worth it? Of course you would! ‘Passion for Profits’ – it’s on sale outside – we’ve only got a limited number, folks – and I’m sorry about that - and I guarantee the books are going to sell out in minutes – so I won’t be offended if you want to leave now to get your copy-”

 

There was a stampede towards the door, people punching each other in the face, crushed bodies littering the aisle. I was only grateful the chairs were bolted to the floor.

 

If you’re interested, ‘Passion for Profits’ sells on www.amazon.com for NZ$25. The thirty customer reviews say it is ‘awesome’.

 

Now, it would be remiss of me to let you think Guru Howard is primarily concerned with achieving his own potential. Part of living a fulfilled life is philanthropically giving back to the world and helping those in need. To demonstrate, he showed a slo-mo clip of himself playing with street children in Peru. This was after the photo of himself draped over Richard Branson, who looked vaguely bemused.

 

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former

- Albert Einstein

Takapuna Beach, early morning

Deeply disturbing Kiwi advertising /2

Deeply disturbing Kiwi advertising /1

Some of the slower moving and/or dead species

Simon the spider

Dead Beryl

 Hwang Li

Mossie headbutting wet paint

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

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.”

Bidding on waffle irons for the adrenaline rush

Husband and I have both embraced Trademe, to the extent that I have been known to spend half a day bidding on waffle irons just for the adrenaline rush. What a fabulous site - although I’ve had an item listed for two weeks now and only one bid. Think I need to work on my marketing: http://www.trademe.co.nz/Books/Fiction-literature/General-fiction/Author-AC/auction-144868571.htm?p=1.

After a week in our new house, I bid for an espresso machine and won a Breville Café Roma Espresso machine for $20 – bargain! (Let’s overlook the fact that I spent about three times that in petrol picking it up.) I emailed the seller informing her that, being freshly arrived in the country, I had no furniture and considered an espresso machine a compulsory appliance even if we had to sit on the floor and drink out of our hands.

Bless her, she threw in two cups.

Everyone has been wonderfully welcome and I am so thankful. Having no friends, I think I project a sort of pathetic neediness that people respond to. Whenever I pick up something I won on Trademe – a dehumidifier, a car, a laundry basket – I have to hold back from inviting myself in: “How about coffee and a scone? If you don’t have scones, just coffee would be fine, or tea or a glass of water. Will you be my friend? I’m very loyal. How about an acquaintance then? PLEASE? All right! I’m letting go of your leg, there’s no need to, you know. Kick it.”

Can any caption do this justice?

My muse

It appears my muse is still on a panda breeding programme in an Alaskan nature reserve

Right hand rule

I was getting quite adept at jump-starting the Mazda when Andrew stripped off his shirt and glistened manfully in the sunlight. Oh yes, and he also sorted out the starter, exorcised the hazard lights, and fixed the driver’s window. The button now works in reverse to the rest of the electronic windows, but ‘works’ is the word to focus on here. (That reminds me, I really should go and wipe the greasy handprints off the inside of the window.) 

We also got an air freshener. 

After all that, Andrew decided the Mazda didn’t suit his boy-racer image and talked me into buying a 1993 Toyota MR2. It’s a two-seater targer-top, which is quite possibly The Most Impractical Car in the World. (In the interests of fairness and full disclosure, I’d better point out that Andrew claims the Yukon is the current titleholder.) 

When we collected the MR2, we faced a dilemma. To date, I had fulfilled the role of Chief Navigator and, although I could give you the grid reference and corresponding map number of any street in the greater Auckland region, I am pretty rubbish at getting there without my eyes glued to the map and a spare digit following the route. Andrew often turns left or right on whim, which doesn’t help. 

So I drove the Mazda home with the A-Z propped against the steering wheel and Andrew following in the MR2. By the time I neared Mount Wellington, I was well stressed, what with reading the map while watching the road and fretting about taking a wrong turn because Andrew mightn’t love me any more (since I apply strict conditions to my love, I expect Andrew does the same).  

There is a bizarre right hand rule in New Zealand – or is it the left hand rule? – whereby – and look, you’re going to have to suspend disbelief a bit here. Is it suspended? How about now? Ok. Visualise this: you’re driving along a main road, on the left hand side if you want to avoid head-on collisions. You want to turn left, and the car coming against you wants to turn into the same road, ie their right. Well, YOU HAVE TO GIVE WAY TO THAT DRIVER.  

I suppose the NZ Transport Authority were kicking it around one day: 

“What about this? Everyone’s driving on the left BUT at roundabouts they go anti-clockwise. Aw yeh? Aw yeh?” 

“OR how about: everyone drives on the left except for Tuesdays and Wednesdays? We can tell them it’s to improve traffic flow. HA HA HA!” 

“No, I have it. Alright lads, listen up. How about IF someone’s turning right, yeh, yeh, wait- ok, so they’re turning right, and someone else is turning right, no, left, no- WHATEVER, then that guy has to let the other one go. Except if he’s at a stop sign- no wait, except if he’s not at a stop sign. Doesn’t really matter. More obscure the better.” 

“<awed silence>” 

“Oh god, that’s beautiful.”  

Now, I understand the left hand turn rule in theory, but in practice . . . I’ve examined it from any number of angles and maybe you can explain it to me, but it seems there’s just no way to make it work. Although I try. 

On this occasion, I was turning right and the car coming against me indicated into the same road. She was moving pretty fast and I made the mistake of pausing. She went to go, then stopped, so I nudged forward, but she whipped around the corner, leaving me stranded across the wrong lane with a line of cars squeezing past. 

“Did you see that COW?” I seethed to Andrew back at the house. “That was TOTALLY my right of way!” 

“Actually, not exactly,” said Andrew. You’ll be noticing that after nearly 10 years together, the man still lives on the edge when he’s not preoccupied dicing with death. “If the car is turning left but there’s traffic backed up behind it which wants to go straight ahead-” 

“Well how the <expletive deleted> am I supposed to know if they want to go straight when I can’t see their indicators?” I shouted. 

Andrew: “Yeah ok, it doesn’t make a lot of sense-” 

“YA THINK?” 

“Anyway, in that instance they have right of way-” 

“Ok look, you’re making this up-” I said, getting a bit teary. 

“No-” 

“You ARE! You’re just- just making it up as you go along! You expect me to drive around this <expletive deleted> country - uninsured - and drive and <expletive deleted> navigate and expect me to turn LEFT! And then you make up some rule - I have no idea why, except you obviously don’t want sex for the next six months – or maybe you’re just trying to wind me up – well, I’M <EXPLETIVE DELETED> WOUND UP!” 

I got my own back a week later, when I was driving the MR2 with Andrew providing last-minute instruction from the passenger seat. 

“Turn left here,” he said and, in my defence for what happened next, I was pre-occupied wondering whether I’d have to apply the handbrake to do so. 

“Give way to that car,” said Andrew. “Niamhie, the car turning right,” a note of panic creeping into his voice, “you need to give way-” 

Now, Andrew swears I floored the accelerator but he doesn’t have to swear because I admit it: I did, and thundered around the corner in oblivious violation of the Road Code, inches in front of the other car’s premature bumper. 

“What the- what the hell!” screamed Andrew. “Didn’t you HEAR me tell you to give way?” 

“Kind of, yes.” 

“But you ACCELERATED! . . . WHY?” 

“Because the rule doesn’t make sense! Not even a little bit! None! Admit it! And ah,” I admitted, “I forgot.” 

“Gah!” 

The next time we took both cars out at once, Andrew offered to lead. After a short distance, I realised Andrew’s method of navigation is according to whichever traffic light happens to be green at any given intersection. No idea where the fuck he’s going, bless him. (In case you were wondering, I still love him. Can’t explain it.)

Father In Law

Father In Law is doing really well and is obviously thrilled to have Andrew home. He is on some fairly wicked drugs (please note: no connection between the drugs and Brian’s joy at seeing his son again). Rosina calls him ‘Extreme Brian’ when he’s wacked out on the happy pills – he has been known to go out and feck rocks at the neighbours at 03:00 hrs.

After some false starts, his stem cells were harvested last week and the actual transplant operation/procedure should take place sometime next month

Give the man a pair of jandals

Our life still sports that surreal, Technicolor glow it adopted four months ago. Our first few weeks in New Zealand felt like a holiday but weren’t. Although I have not once regretted leaving Dubai, I still miss my friends awfully, and the routine: the shape of a day. Oh, and air conditioning: the weather here is sweltering. 

Andrew slipped right back into Kiwiland, addressing everything as ‘mate’ and snorting tinnies in his shorts. Give the man a pair of jandals and he will be native.

Me, I’m working it out more slowly. Subconsciously I expected everything to miraculously fall in place upon arrival in New Zealand – here’s the house, here’s the car, here’s the dog – and of course, it didn’t. There are times I feel overwhelmed and isolated by the whole adventure, despite Andrew’s family being hugely welcoming

Pretty Average Road

Auckland place names: Lovely Drive, Bland Place, Main Highway, Nice Road, Pleasant Road and Pretty Average Road (all right, so I made the last one up)

Drug dealer’s shoes

Suicide music

I notice things about the country that I completely missed during previous visits - for example, the fact that Kiwi men seem genetically incapable of keeping their clothes on. There appears to be some kind of repulsive force field around their upper torso. There are also abandoned shoes everywhere: on the side of the roads, under bushes, dangling by the laces over electricity lines (Brett says this denotes a drug dealer’s squat. Not entirely sure how/why he knows this).  

The radio stations seem inordinately fond of sixties music – or suicide music as I call it after half an hour of ‘Honey, I Miss You’, ‘Gotta Get A Message To You’ and ‘Do You Know The Way To San Jose’: 

‘One day when I was not at home
While she was there and all alone
The angels came-’

But how better off we’d all be if that comprised the first verse. 

‘One more hour and my life will be through, hold on, hold ooon-’

Why, why, WHY couldn’t the Bee Gees have written the song sixty minutes LATER? 

“Do you know the way to San JoseLa la lala la la lalala laaaa-’

That, my friend, has to be the most perfect wrist-slashing tempo of any song ever recorded

Wadi Beh

Men, cycling. Lucas dismounted his bike for the photo

 

Danny pulls a wheelie and a face

 

Husband hasn’t the puff to pull anything

 

David, Lucas and Danny striding manfully towards food

 

Danny can’t face a camera without pointing. Not sure why Husband is joining him

 

Rare image of David without his hand in front of his face

 

Goat contemplating lunch

 

End of the road

In the mountains

Although Husband looks deep in thought, he’s actually working up to laugh at one of my father’s jokes This is my favourite photo of Andrew of all time

 

This isn’t

 

Andrew on Cumeen na Péiste

 

Still there

 

Yep

 

Kerry sheep

 

Top of Ireland

Ginger snaps

I have weaned myself off chocolate with the aid of ginger snaps. Nowadays, if you offered me a bag full of dairy milk chocolate or one single lonely ginger snap . . . ok, I’d still choose the chocolate, but I’d try and persuade you to give me the ginger snap AS WELL. Along with the rest of the packet. And if you refused, I’d steal around to your house later that evening and smash a pane of glass in the back door with my elbow and rob the packet of ginger snaps. Or I might go to the supermarket and buy myself a pack, whichever was easiest.

 

I’m not usually given to poetry, but the only way I can express what ginger snaps mean to me is with verse. I’ve composed a little poem and I hope you like it. Ahem.

 

Ode to ginger snaps

 

Oh small round disc

Of gingery goodness,

I am humbled by

Your wild, majestic, unfettered beauty.

Ravish me in your sugary embrace.

You invade my soul.

I want to snort you whole.

Why do you not?

Why?

Why do you not

Come in handy powdered format

For that very purpose?

Idle McVities Marketing Department

You all deserve to be fired

You worthless bunch of slackers.

(Although admittedly I do like

The easy open packaging.

Well done with that.)

 

Raunchy biscuity lover,

I will crush you into

Fine particles

And inhale.

My flaming nostrils

Hurt.

Ow.

 

What do you think? Am I better at the poetry than the prose?

Warthogs

For six months work has been relatively slow and now I have five projects on the go - all of them urgent high priority (bloody sales guys). Last week I had a business trip to South Africa.

For a while there, I was getting worried about maintaining my frequent-flyer Emirates gold card. The thought of being downgraded to silver card status fills me with a ghastly horror. I have nightmares (yes, more of them) of turning up at the airport, walking up to the check-in counter, reaching for my gold card and - AAAaaaaargh! - it’s only silver!

[And then I look down and find I'm naked.]

Anyhow, it looks like - phew! - I’ll maintain my gold card this year. During the week I flew to Johannesburg incorporating a round trip to Namibia. It was my first time visiting South Africa; and the only other time I’ve been to the continent - to visit a client in Sudan - I didn’t see very much of the place.

Luckily my client in Namibia had the right idea - our meeting was held in a Game Park Reserve, in an open-air bar beside a watering hole. We discussed multimedia message centres, WAP gateways, customer detail record formats, billing interfaces and message transcoding against a live soundtrack of snuffling warthogs and birdsong. Understandably my client was more interested in the wildlife and the contents of their beer glasses than my presentation. I can’t say the presentation held much thrill for me either - but if there’s a better way to do business I haven’t come across it yet.

Johannesburg has a reputation for violence. Even driving through the city centre is risky and it is inadvisable to go out alone in the city after dark. Perhaps this is just the same as any other large city and I am too accustomed to the relative safety of Dubai.

My client drove me through the shantytowns of Johannesburg, revealing poverty on a phenomenal scale. These ghettos cover acres of the city; sheds constructed of corrugated tin and/or scrap wood with poor sanitation and strewn with rotting piles of rubbish. In contrast, the suburbs of Johannesburg are pleasant leafy areas populated with opulent villas. There appears to be little in between.

I am glad to be home