Neighbours

Did you know it was Neighbours' Day yesterday? I found out last weekend when I received an invitation to a Collins Street residents' get-together. My immediate neighbours on each side I know well enough, but the rest of the street not so well - a few familiar faces that I nod or wave to in passing.

Robyn and Basil at number 21 knew well ahead of time and had taken the trouble to apply for resource consent to close the street to traffic, so that we could gather around the barbeque and meet one another. Though I have developed adequate skills for pretending to be interested in people, I'm not a huge fan of mindless small talk and I prefer to use them in times of necessity rather than by choice. Despite this I decided to join the party, and mingled for what I judged to be a socially acceptable period of time. I met lots of perfectly pleasant people, was slobbered on by a few dogs and ate a couple of sausages. I hope Basil and Robyn felt well supported and their efforts appreciated. It's nice to have faces to put with the houses and know that friendly folk dwell within. It would be great to think that this inaugural Neighbours' Day became much more widespread in streets throughout New Zealand

Just around the corner there is a new face in the neighbourhood. Artist Alfred Memelink has built a new art gallery. The gallery has been open for a month or two, with an eagerly anticipated cafe and ice cream parlour to be added soon. This afternoon I attended a watercolour class in the studio above the gallery. I think some of the attendees mis-read the course description, because it clearly stated it was a beginner class. My friend and I managed to (just) hold our own, but clearly this was not the first time some others had put brush to paper.

Wet on wet technique for the moody sky.

I know, I know - why it's practically photographic the way I've captured Matiu-Somes!

I would have gone for more muted blues and greys had I had been given more choice on the palette, and I'm not sure Alfred thought I was properly reproducing the purple clouds he advocated. Just the same it was a bit of fun getting all arty at the neighbours on a Petone Sunday afternoon.  

Kitty Cocaine

A recent drug bust by the police garnered considerable media attention. It's disquieting to think drug dealers are operating in one's own neighbourhood, outrageous to consider they may be actually cooking it up right there next door.

But what was apparently particularly shocking in this case, was that this could be happening to rich people, in trendy and expensive homes. Why, minor celebrities live there, too. Keith Quin might well have been one of these poor folk evacuated from their homes in the early morning, forced to stand around on the pavements in dressing gowns and slippers. The tone of most articles seemed to suggest that it was remiss of the police to allow this to happen within a stone's throw of the central police station, and to people who had spent millions on their apartments. How very sobering to be confronted with the reality that a large bank balance doesn't guarantee insulation from the seedier side of life. 

The reality is, it's everywhere. Even in pleasant Petone, as good as life is, it's not all long beach walks and lattes. The dealers are there, and they hook in the unsuspecting with ease. They are cunning. The first hit is always free. And so it was in Collins Street - there in the letter box, delivered for the drug overlords by a mere child. 

And now poor William Patrick is in the grip of a full-blown addiction. We are buying in bulk, because it is too scary to consider being without a fix when he demands it.

Like all drug users his personality is changing. He was once a regular, hoity feline who feigned deafness and came and went as he pleased, conferring affection on his own terms. He was his own cat, proud and independent. Now he is reduced to scrambling at the shake of the bag and purring in unseemly gratitude. We just hope this isn't a gateway drug to stronger forms of catnip. 

The Personal Touch

I've been a very loyal Countdown customer since they opened in Petone. I felt a bit bad supporting them (what with the alleged screwing of suppliers and demands for cash backhanders, and the unsporting attitude towards New Zealand suppliers by the Australian parent company) but a happy upside of the consumer backlash was a lovely empty supermarket and no queues at the checkout. 

And they really seem to appreciate me - I get a constant stream of emails pointing out all the items I might like to purchase in the coming week. It's like they really care. 

You can imagine my surprise then, when I caught up with the news this morning.

So where is the personal touch now, Countdown? Why would you let me find out the bad news through the media? Why didn't you activate your email system to spread the word? How many OneCard bonus points do I get for liver failure? No, I'm sure they haven't forgotten me, but just in case, I sent a wee email. 

Dear Countdown,

I see that through my OneCard swiping you are able to review my shopping, monitor my purchasing patterns, and tailor email content to my projected purchasing needs. 

You may have noticed therefore that I have been merrily consuming, for the last two weeks, Golden Queen peaches and Royal Gala apples. I would imagine your sophisticated customer tracking system could easily be programmed to reveal many customers in the same predicament as myself. I am assuming I will soon receive a refund of the purchase price of these, to compensate for the fruit I have been advised to throw away. Obviously I could not throw it all away, having eaten some, but a full refund might be quite sporting, bearing in mind I must now keep a constant check on the colour of both my eyes and urine while I wait to see if I develop Hepatitis A in the Countdown Fruit Lottery. While it's lovely that you are concerned that I might run out of my favorite hair conditioner, wine and dish washing liquid, I'm finding myself a little more distracted by the possibility of imminent liver cancer and other potential side effects.

Yours in anticipation,

Tracey Collins