The Horse's Arse

I got a letter yesterday from my bank. It was explaining that I need not fear the final stages of its merger with ANZ - strangely everything would be exactly the same, yet also better. The only change I will notice will be blue where once there was green. They didn't risk too much early exposure to the colour blue, with the theme very much green, green, green - including touristy shots of expansive green pastures and cabbage trees. They didn't cover the whole horse logo aspect. I have long been aware they had effectively rented the horse logo from Lloyds and time was running out, merger or no merger. I for one will miss this the most.

I was never a 'horsey' child. I didn't play with little ponies or pester my parents to supply the real thing. Nor did a fall from a donkey at the age of about four dispose me to dislike equines. I never really thought much about them. A television item about the trainer and horse for the New Zealand ads was mildly amusing - they used a not especially black horse for the shoots, painting him black for each occasion. No, my real appreciation for the horse came via a friend. We were in Queenstown and I was fumbling with my card, trying to orient it successfully into a money machine (quite possibly to withdraw money to load into another machine at the casino). My friend, another National Bank customer, remarked briskly, "For God's sake, everyone knows it's arse first!". This was truly one of those moments, what Oprah would term 'lightbulb moments', when the stars aligned and the universe made sense. How could I not have known this? How could I have fumbled for so long? 

And so, for many years I have been a slick, arse first money machiner. No long lines form behind my inefficiency.The horse's arse and I are in and out in record time. I will miss the horse.

Spring Forward

Spring has been well underway for a few weeks now and even the late planted bulbs pictured above are putting on an impressive (some might say arty) show in the garden. Daylight saving begins tonight and the mornings will arrive with even more hideous earliness. This year at least my body can adjust over our just begun 'non-contact' teaching break. Last year we were still plodding through the term due to the need for all of New Zealand to schedule themselves around the Rugby World Cup and Auckland's transport system limitations. 

The weather has certainly cast aside winter temperatures and the days have been mild at worst, hot at best. This then was the cue for my woodburner installation to be finished yesterday. The plaster surround was apparently at last available from the supplier and my installer, who has been plagued by an extraordinary series of funerals and family emergencies, completed the job. Thirteen weeks of on-going mess, dust and disorder is a challenge for one who is programmed by the 'fusspot' gene. It has been an exercise in patience, but ultimately the result is excellent. An upside of now not needing it for another six months is that it will stay clean and tidy - note the carefully staged, matching clean and tidy firewood!

Up North

I've been away at a conference. It was held in a fine old school - Takapuna Grammar. It opened in 1927, the same year my wee house was built. The original building is an impressive sight and a lovely one to enter.

It's been a fairly intense but very interesting couple of days - a full programme of keynote speakers and seminars, all very relevant with exciting (though at times daunting) possibilities. I am also now sure of these things - three days is a long time for me to be entirely dependent on a PC, laptops are dreary and heavy to drag around, iPads rock. I was going to update the blog while I was away but it's actually a chore uploading and resizing photos without my Mac. Having to tote a laptop around is like tramping with full pack. I heard there is a lot of lead in computers - an awful lot in my HP. Lots of tech savvy, innovative people were using iPads for some aspect of their ICT work.

My next toy - let the saving start!

The motel I was staying at was also in Takapuna and opposite "The Block". I watched the programme through the whole series so it was really interesting to actually see the houses. They were much smaller than I imagined and on a very busy road.

They all looked rather sad and abandoned. Rachel and Tyson's one looked particularly neglected with much of the planting already dead and the lawns long and unkempt. 

I'm not surprised now that they did so poorly at auction. It would have to be a bargain for anyone to choose to live there. I understand the winning couple's house is going to be used as business premises, which makes more sense.

The flights there and back were both smooth, on A320s. The return flight was in this rugby themed one. I've no idea what the significance is of this (it's not as if it's a particularly big year for rugby - you'd think this would have been an idea for Rugby World Cup year) but the interiors were new and relatively comfortable. 

Petone Feathers

Our back yard bird feeding station brings the usual sparrows, and blackbirds, thrushes and starlings are active on the lawn. Seagulls pass over, sometimes landing on the roof or dropping shellfish to smash open on the garage roof. As I walk each morning I pass a block of flats where one of the occupants sometimes throws bread on the driveway in the mornings. This morning there was no bread, but two hopeful ducks had decided to wait on.

They weren't alone, however. This kotuku was perched on the car roof surveying the scene in a suitably majestic manner. I wonder if he was interested in a baked breakfast or just there for the company. 

Thoughts While Supermarketing

Such wee darlings just have to be shared with the wider public.

I hope, that when I am old and grey, the world is run by the sweet two year old sitting in the trolley sweetly singing "This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine" and not the whining, petulant lump helping himself to the lollies in the bulk bins while his mother pretends not to notice. This is why one can only purchase from the very high bins that allow the bulk foods to fall into the bag untouched by any hand.

'Baked not fried' is a ridiculous point of difference if the key ingredients of what you are either frying or baking are total crap. It is also just as easy to infuse the baked item with the very processed oil other manufacturers fry in so that the baking effectively fries the product anyway. Basic rule - buy food. You'll know it's food if it looked that way 500 years ago. The clue here - if they put a lot of effort into the packaging and marketing, it's because the product itself cost little to produce and is of negligible use as a good food choice.

Front page news at the checkout.

I come from Scots and English stock. I sunburn easily. I take precautions, though I still embrace sunlight and all its health-giving properties. Sunburn is painful, very painful. I have experienced it on various parts of my anatomy. I definitely would not want sunburned nipples. Do they even tan? If my brother-in-law had, just weeks before, been snapped grasping his willy, I think this would be an added incentive not to strip in the company of others, no matter how private the setting, particularly outdoors. I like the royal family, but surely someone has told Kate about power of the telephoto lens - wouldn't it be covered in Being a Princess 101?

Flowers From My Mother's Garden

 

I felt exhausted all day yesterday, but it's amazing how much one perks up once the working week is over and a glass of wine is at hand. The glass of wine accompanied a very pleasant meal at Arthur's. Then a brisk walk  through the bright lights of the city to Downstage. I've actually seen the show a few years ago, I'd estimated 12-13,  not far off the 14 I read on the blurb last night. I recalled it as a marvellous show with a very poignant ending (I had my hanky at the ready) and it was every bit as wonderful a theatre experience as I had anticipated. Go and see it - we need to support performance in our area and you will be in for an evening of laughs and links to your own memories.

A Certain Demographic

I ponder the whole aging thing lately, as my life accelerates and the days fly by. Friday evening has left me dwelling even more on how quickly times passes, after I attended the 60th birthday of a friend. I met him, the husband of a colleague, in my first year of teaching and they have both remained good friends ever since. These 'signicant' birthdays just keep on coming. The 60th seems particularly cruel - a number that tips you into the 'elderly' category if some cub reporter is writing up your collision with a passing bus while crossing the road. And while you still feel vigorous and energetic, you are in the demographic group that only those selling retirement homes, funeral plans and incontinence or erectile dysfunction products are truly interested in. And yet you are still five years away from the anticipated Gold Card.

Passport to the good life.

One interesting aspect of this aging thing is how differently it has affected our hair. Back in the day I was a mousey blonde and my party hosts were both dark haired. Thirty years on he is grey, while the good Lord has made me into a redhead and my friend into a blonde. But apart from this miracle of aging, there is a darker side which does seem, as if to redress the hair balance, to plaque we females a little more.

And it's not the high-spirited fun Walt Disney would have had us think. Actions, intentions, objects and even words just get lost. Great portions of time are now devoted to trying to recall exactly why one went to a particular room or where one last saw a vital tool. Amusing anecdotes lose their punch when the vocabulary dissolves from one's mind. In the workplace this is not such a problem. My employers have provided me with a set of twenty munchkins who enjoy nothing better than the challenge of locating the missing pen/camera/roll/ruler/book that was in my hand only twenty seconds before. They know where trouble is most likely to strike and are ready to grab the permanent marker  that I have mistaken for a whiteboard pen from my hand, return the key I have left hanging in the lock or retrieve the coffee mug I put down while helping to tie a shoe.

Munchkins at your service - better than any PA.

But at home I'm left to my own devices and it can be months before a missing item turns up in the strangest of places. I am not alone in these problems, and like my fellow sufferers there is that nagging wonder whether these are the initial signs of a ghastly befuddled future. I was pleased then to read an article in the latest North and South. (I got the subscription through Flybuys, a decision greatly regretted and Home and Garden would have been a much better choice. This is in no way an endorsement of the magazine, save your money.) It was all about living with dementia, and its insidious intrusion into lives. It tried to highlight the positives, but it failed - there are no positives. What it did provide was a handy checklist of what are and are not tell-tale signs of things to come. You will be pleased to know I passed with flying colours. I may lose my bankcard, but I don't forget who I bank with. It may take me a moment or two to recall where I parked the car, but I do remember I own a car. But with less than a decade to go until the threshold, I must take great care crossing roads

Where Were You?

There have been a lot of significant anniversaries and reminders of momentous events lately. Tomorrow was the first day of World War 2. Obviously I don't have any memories linked with this event, it has always had a purely historical event in my life, though I was well into adulthood when it dawned on me that I was only born a short thirteen years after its end and as child of a returned serviceman I was part of the baby-boomer generation.

Neil Armstrong's death had people talking about the first moon landing (conspiracy theorists and complete nutters may exit the blog at this point, please) and I do have clear memories of that day. Well, much later that day because the grainy televised images weren't 'straight off the satellite' but viewed some time later after the reels were flown across the Tasman. New Zealanders probably were initially glued to their radios, but I have no memory of this at all. I do remember the viewing though because it was significant for two reasons. The first was that we were allowed to eat our dinner in the living room in front of the television - previously unheard of. The second significant point was what we were eating - curry and rice. This was a very recent addition to our family menus. My mother had always served up delicious (if we discount boiled cabbage) meals that were of the 'meat and three veg' variety. My father had definite views about any food that reminded him of the range of world cultures he had experienced during his war service in Europe so macaroni cheese was the closest we came to the exotic and garlic was banned. My mother, though, had recently come under the influence of Allison Holst and suddenly rice, seen only before in rice pudding (which I never ate) had suddenly transformed into a savoury dish - radical. The awe and wonder of the actual moon landing completely escapes me. 

It is 25 years since Lotto first came to our shores. I clearly remember the first draw - I had reason to be optomistic. Some say that statistically one's chances are poor, but I sat with my ticket, hopes high. And with good reason. All through my childhood I had watched the weekly ritual of my father and the Golden Kiwi ticket. It was usually named something snappy like 'Happy Days Synd' (the 'synd' being a vital element to outsmart the taxman when the big win came) and he would run it slowly down the long columns of winning numbers looking for the match. Between draws we would discuss all the wonderful things we would have when we won the big £12,000. That day never came, which is why by combining my own chances with my father's I feel my odds are vastly improved. Patience is a virtue - the 26th year could well be mine.

It is 15 years since the demise of Princess Diana - note I said PRINCESS Diana. I know exactly what I was doing when I heard of her death - I was having a huge panic attack of anguish and dis-belief. This was because approximately 60 seconds earlier my mother had rung to let me know that Diana had died. My mother's name was Diana and my niece is named after her. The shock was enormous - how could she die so young, what must my sister be going through? In a tunnel? In France? What was she doing there - it's a long way from Glenfield on a school night. Hearing it was Princess Diana came as huge relief on that Sunday afternoon and I went back to quietly enjoying The Antiques Roadshow.

Spring Has Sprung

The Bridge Club recreational walking group has been in winter recess, with only occasional gatherings for the consumption of food and alcohol. Today heralded the official start of our 2012/2013 season with a walk from Collins Street to Days Bay, a not inconsiderable distance and a good start as we are only five weeks away from our trans-tasman trip. The charming picture above is very like the scene today, but as I have mis-placed my camera this is a Google image. A more concerted search for the camera is clearly called for or a replacement will need to be purchased before we scale Sydney Harbour bridge and sample the delights of the city.

It has been a very mild and reasonably short winter and, until the ridiculously early start to daylight saving in a few weeks, I am currently enjoying a sunshine walk to school in the mornings and arriving home in daylight  each evening. Birdsong and blooms abound and Millie and I look forward to another summer at the beach.  

Yes, this image is stolen too. But it's very springy and I have been enjoying all the signs of spring on my morning walks and even had time to feed the ducks at the civic gardens on Friday. Life is good.