The New Zealand love of rugby is world renowned, and at times seems all consuming. Not least when Emily (continuing to surprise in her embracing the local culture) commented during week 2 of the NPC rugby "their backs aren't running very good lines". And that is whilst the Living channel is readily available too!
Great enjoyment was brought by overhearing Craig David's "Seven Days". The joy in the knowledge that I had managed to distance myself from hearing or even thinking of the south coast crooner in a good six-months. The joy of realising that respite is possible, and that exposure to the discography of Robbie Williams is similarly avoidable. Unfortunately Crowded House and Ronan Keating are less well discouraged.
Themed parties. Never been to as many. Fake Tatts n Hats, Outrageous Fortune.....
Adverts for sheep drench. As an alternative to hours of high profile, celebrity tit/arse showing adverts aiming to extract my cash in return for an overpriced mascara / car / magazine / insurance company / bank, adverts for sheep drench (and similar) and Weet-bix are two-a-penny. Almost tempted to combine them.
The search for creative genius continues amongst NZ's vast array of derivative musical acts.
There is a light however, and a recent blues night (gold coin entry) raised the bar considerably.
Otago V Southland NPC rugby: "They've got numbers out wide.......unfortunately they're low numbers"
More about dreams - 6/7/09
About time I rekindled my diary writing for assistance of future recollection. Recently remembering a vivid dream I once had, I flew (in the dream) to Canada and hiked across snow covered back-country for what seemed like several days (unlikely), without food (obviously unlikely). The landscape was pristine untouched apline loveliness, and like any good dream it probably included choice music, and a dozen of my favourite things.
The reason for my recalling this was the most recent school holidays (which I persuade current bean counting employers to let me take off) which were partially spent in pristine untouched alpine loveliness. Staying in a hut called for maximum cold weather resilience (38F on arrival), and some fetching merino long john sartorial elegance. A 20-30cm snow dump preceded a gruelling hike into Temple Basin to gaze at the snowboarding masses (ridiculously quiet NZ ski-fields!). I consider the hire options and risk of re-breaking the wrist. Emily glares.
Knee-high, arse-high then chest-high (the snow!), but well worth braving for a hike up the Bealey Valley riverbed, traipsing carefully in the avalanche areas. Punchbowl Falls for snow man (woman) making and Waimakereri river crossings burnt us out. Cajun, bluegrass, and marshmallows; cheese, wine and chocolate; curry, steak and scrabble helped build us back up.
Akaroa on the Banks peninsula makes for entirely more serene holiday making (sweet place). Which is alright for some. The itch got the writer though. A run to a rather high 600m and shin destroying canter down the other side to Le Bons Bay culminated in a half marathon, low sugar levels, and a well scratched itch.
It also provided Emily the chance to pit her wits against the volcanic local geography, eeeeeeeking her way around twisting, steep, edgeless, unsealed roads. With the runner back in the driving seat, a road to Port Levy looks inviting, soon turns unsealed and winds up to 600m (ice free of charge). It is relieving to find someone else using the road at the top. A pleasant old chap stopping for a flask of mild hot drink no doubt. He assures me the road down the other side is navigable before venturing in the opposite direction. The last thing I notice is his number plate - 'BOTHER'. We drive on sheepishly, fortunately with no bother at all.
The reason for my recalling this was the most recent school holidays (which I persuade current bean counting employers to let me take off) which were partially spent in pristine untouched alpine loveliness. Staying in a hut called for maximum cold weather resilience (38F on arrival), and some fetching merino long john sartorial elegance. A 20-30cm snow dump preceded a gruelling hike into Temple Basin to gaze at the snowboarding masses (ridiculously quiet NZ ski-fields!). I consider the hire options and risk of re-breaking the wrist. Emily glares.
Knee-high, arse-high then chest-high (the snow!), but well worth braving for a hike up the Bealey Valley riverbed, traipsing carefully in the avalanche areas. Punchbowl Falls for snow man (woman) making and Waimakereri river crossings burnt us out. Cajun, bluegrass, and marshmallows; cheese, wine and chocolate; curry, steak and scrabble helped build us back up.
Akaroa on the Banks peninsula makes for entirely more serene holiday making (sweet place). Which is alright for some. The itch got the writer though. A run to a rather high 600m and shin destroying canter down the other side to Le Bons Bay culminated in a half marathon, low sugar levels, and a well scratched itch.
It also provided Emily the chance to pit her wits against the volcanic local geography, eeeeeeeking her way around twisting, steep, edgeless, unsealed roads. With the runner back in the driving seat, a road to Port Levy looks inviting, soon turns unsealed and winds up to 600m (ice free of charge). It is relieving to find someone else using the road at the top. A pleasant old chap stopping for a flask of mild hot drink no doubt. He assures me the road down the other side is navigable before venturing in the opposite direction. The last thing I notice is his number plate - 'BOTHER'. We drive on sheepishly, fortunately with no bother at all.
Winter whatnots - 27/6/09
Characters
Joe and Irene, imminent departure of the Devonian and the Canadian, so many a catch-up for hearty walks, brisk drinks and stiff meals. Anj the birthday girl, whose BYO dinner contributed to Emily's shame, along with Larry (and her Norwegians) and seemingly half of Ireland who live in Welly. Newtown parties with Suzy Mojito, Ben's work-blondes and dancing to Blondie (for Em) and the Smiths (for Rob) at Atomic. International Pot Luck at Sayaka's, the writer's hesitance at 'hanging' with a gaggle of teachers was destabilised by an abundance of delicious international scran. Film-making at the 48hour film festival (more teachers!), and seeing it on the big screen in Wellywood.
Dooner's Dream
A very strange dream in the cold room. A sizeable group (including Dray, GLE, Owe and Spudboy) had travelled to NZ for a visit. We ran into them in town, where their jetlag had manifested itself in the form of two black eyes each. Curious. Rundle was also in town with the marines, and along with Sven we all went to a gig. It was spectacular, particularly since the audience sat on a large revolving roundabout and the band played on a circular stage all around the audience. What could this all mean?
Things otherwise, a bit of work (woah!), and watching of the Lions once a week....what a second test! Organising the next and subseqent rounds of galavanting. House parties in Wellington usually involve costumes or stupid themes. Fortunately they have taken a back seat of late in favour of drinks and conversation type events. Including White Russians, and brunette Kiwis.
Joe and Irene, imminent departure of the Devonian and the Canadian, so many a catch-up for hearty walks, brisk drinks and stiff meals. Anj the birthday girl, whose BYO dinner contributed to Emily's shame, along with Larry (and her Norwegians) and seemingly half of Ireland who live in Welly. Newtown parties with Suzy Mojito, Ben's work-blondes and dancing to Blondie (for Em) and the Smiths (for Rob) at Atomic. International Pot Luck at Sayaka's, the writer's hesitance at 'hanging' with a gaggle of teachers was destabilised by an abundance of delicious international scran. Film-making at the 48hour film festival (more teachers!), and seeing it on the big screen in Wellywood.
Dooner's Dream
A very strange dream in the cold room. A sizeable group (including Dray, GLE, Owe and Spudboy) had travelled to NZ for a visit. We ran into them in town, where their jetlag had manifested itself in the form of two black eyes each. Curious. Rundle was also in town with the marines, and along with Sven we all went to a gig. It was spectacular, particularly since the audience sat on a large revolving roundabout and the band played on a circular stage all around the audience. What could this all mean?
Things otherwise, a bit of work (woah!), and watching of the Lions once a week....what a second test! Organising the next and subseqent rounds of galavanting. House parties in Wellington usually involve costumes or stupid themes. Fortunately they have taken a back seat of late in favour of drinks and conversation type events. Including White Russians, and brunette Kiwis.
Bones, thugs and harmonies - 23/6/09
Been a bit of a while what what, so a potential flurry, of tale if not excitement.
Firstly, the wrist.....is out of cast. This is good, although doesn't mean it is healed, more that I can be trusted. Answers on the reality of a complete heal will be in a postcard next week, following CT scan. Instead - a splint, and a ridiculously weak wrist after 12 weeks stationary. And the skin was delightful. Like old parmesan. All clean now mind.
Some of the spare time has been employed in writing, recording and producing some drinking songs, of which bootlegs are circulating (and reportedly being danced and cried to). Further time has been spent at wild parties with young people and loud music, watching rugby (les bleus, the ABs and the Lions), and being generally amused by Emily's anti-social pub culture. Emily had a drinking problem the other week, when she was asked to leave a Wellington Irish bar for pouring Emer a glass of her own wine brought in after a BYO meal. Disgraceful behaviour, and I naturally sided with the bouncer who was quite polite (and built like a brick shithouse, as is usual for local doormen). Oh the shame of it (she repeated).
Firstly, the wrist.....is out of cast. This is good, although doesn't mean it is healed, more that I can be trusted. Answers on the reality of a complete heal will be in a postcard next week, following CT scan. Instead - a splint, and a ridiculously weak wrist after 12 weeks stationary. And the skin was delightful. Like old parmesan. All clean now mind.
Some of the spare time has been employed in writing, recording and producing some drinking songs, of which bootlegs are circulating (and reportedly being danced and cried to). Further time has been spent at wild parties with young people and loud music, watching rugby (les bleus, the ABs and the Lions), and being generally amused by Emily's anti-social pub culture. Emily had a drinking problem the other week, when she was asked to leave a Wellington Irish bar for pouring Emer a glass of her own wine brought in after a BYO meal. Disgraceful behaviour, and I naturally sided with the bouncer who was quite polite (and built like a brick shithouse, as is usual for local doormen). Oh the shame of it (she repeated).
On the lookout for calcium, zinc and phosphorous - 21/5/09
All ready for cast removal? Check.
Physio appointment made? Check.
Bike chain oiled? Check.
Training regime? Check.
Plans laid for snow fun? Check.
Job? Come back to that one.
Scaphoid? That one too.
After 8 weeks of wrist in cast, and a lack of left handed motor skills (can't touch thumb to any of the fingers), the excitement of removing the deteriorating forearm from it's fibreglass containment was running high. The process revealed a withered, scabby limb with some tenderness (of the bones, not the saw). The x-rays revealed insufficient healing, and the doctor revealed the need for a further 4weeks in cast. To add torment to injury, he also revealed there would be no rugby or snowboarding this season, and no mountain biking or guitar for the immediate future. Almost choked.
Perfect conditions to be knuckling down to some hard work to keep the brain from going stale. However....
Economic downturns have spread to my back sky-rocket, via the ailing job market. Having taken a soaking, a wind beating, and avoided an earthquake on the way to an interview perhaps it is time the stroke of luck arrived. Still, luck comes in the form of the Design IT teacher, for whom one bakes cakes and pasta bakes. The one that arrives home with VIZ and Dylan Moran on DVD to cheer up the one-armed bandito. And the one that involves him in a 48hour film competition to exercise musical creativity.
So...more time will be spent in the library, and checking the recruiters are awake, cooking and cleaning (slowly), piano playing (one hand and index finger) and walking/running where possible.
The wind of late has been special (as previously warned) - the small girls hanging on to lampposts variety, the running down steep hills and being held back (at Makara beach) variety, and the light jog consuming the energy of a sprint in the headwind variety. Jog on.
Physio appointment made? Check.
Bike chain oiled? Check.
Training regime? Check.
Plans laid for snow fun? Check.
Job? Come back to that one.
Scaphoid? That one too.
After 8 weeks of wrist in cast, and a lack of left handed motor skills (can't touch thumb to any of the fingers), the excitement of removing the deteriorating forearm from it's fibreglass containment was running high. The process revealed a withered, scabby limb with some tenderness (of the bones, not the saw). The x-rays revealed insufficient healing, and the doctor revealed the need for a further 4weeks in cast. To add torment to injury, he also revealed there would be no rugby or snowboarding this season, and no mountain biking or guitar for the immediate future. Almost choked.
Perfect conditions to be knuckling down to some hard work to keep the brain from going stale. However....
Economic downturns have spread to my back sky-rocket, via the ailing job market. Having taken a soaking, a wind beating, and avoided an earthquake on the way to an interview perhaps it is time the stroke of luck arrived. Still, luck comes in the form of the Design IT teacher, for whom one bakes cakes and pasta bakes. The one that arrives home with VIZ and Dylan Moran on DVD to cheer up the one-armed bandito. And the one that involves him in a 48hour film competition to exercise musical creativity.
So...more time will be spent in the library, and checking the recruiters are awake, cooking and cleaning (slowly), piano playing (one hand and index finger) and walking/running where possible.
The wind of late has been special (as previously warned) - the small girls hanging on to lampposts variety, the running down steep hills and being held back (at Makara beach) variety, and the light jog consuming the energy of a sprint in the headwind variety. Jog on.
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