Happy New Year from Planet Earth

It seems like quite a negative way to start a blog, let alone a new year, but I feel that I need to apologise.

You see, this blog is going to sound rather downbeat and negative. It's not intended to but I know, even before I write the words, that is it going to. Obviously I'm hoping that it won't be, obviously I'm hoping that it will be life affirming and uplifting. But I'm not that good a writer. Maybe in the hands of someone more skilled.....

Anyway, last night we decided to head into Wanaka and join in the revelry and celebrations for New Year. Not surprisingly it was packed, especially for a small town. The bars were full to bursting - drinks could only be consumed indoors despite it being a warm evening to contain the consumption of alcohol. It wasn't working - the town had its glad rags on and was not going to take them off anytime soon.

After a couple of drinks, the heat and tiredness took hold and we needed to get some air. After negotiating the wobbling, waving crowds at the lake side, we reached the end of the main street and the end of the street lights. And with the blanket of darkness that came with that, the sky revealed its celestial majesty. Stars. Millions of them. 

For the first time in my life I could see not only the stars, but also the stuff I between. The Milky Way I suppose. It was all too much. So whilst people in town drank, celebrated and reminisced over the events of the year, I laid on a picnic bench and stared into the cosmos. In comparison, a year on earth seemed like a trifling thing. A mere blink of an eye. What was a year anyway? Why celebrate the passing of, what is in reality, the transfer from one month to the next. It happens twelve times in a year, so why the hullabaloo? Are the hangovers really worth it? Of course they are, but in the grand scheme of things, is New Year really worth celebrating?

Last night you could see Orion's Belt as clear as day. Well not day, but you know what I mean. Take one of the three stars that form the belt, Mintaka. Mintaka is 1,200 light years away. Yes, 1,200. So to get there, even travelling at the speed of light (which is pretty nippy by anyone's standards) it would take 1,200 years to get there. Better take a packed lunch.

Or to put it another way, the light coming from there has taken 1,200 years to reach us. We are looking at something that is 1,200 years old. It may not even be there anymore. We wouldn't know. If it were to disappear tomorrow then we wouldn't know for another thousand years or so. Assuming of course they the human race is even there to see it. Which, if by the events of the past twelve months are anything to go by, is unlikely.

But let's not dwell on that - I'll leave that to others. Instead I'll just gawp at the hugeness of it all and take comfort in the vastness of the universe. And if anything is worth celebrating then I'll certainly drink to that!

Third Time. Lucky

HIt dawned on me the other day that we are about to spend our third Christmas in New Zealand. And it took me a bit by surprise - well I never was quick on the uptake. Third time. Blimey.

The first time was on holiday and, quite frankly, it felt like we were playing truant or something - as if we'd snuck off from everyone and had a holiday in the sun without asking permission. It was supposed to be a one off, a once-in-a-lifetime experience and something to tick off the bucket list. Not that I had one. But if I had, there would be one less item on it. And once done we were supposed to be back to normal. 

Yet here I am, sitting on the deck of our house in Auckland and looking out over the Hauraki Gulf as Christmas approaches once again. And once again, it feels nothing like Christmas. It's as if Christmas is happening somewhere else and we're just watching from a distance. Which I suppose from a certain viewpoint we are. 

There are a number of work colleagues who have been in New Zealand a lot longer than us, ten years or more in some cases, and they say it still doesn't feel festive. I guess a 'traditional' Christmas is hard-wired into the psyche of anyone raised in the northern hemisphere. Mind you, although they say they miss it, I don't see any of them jumping onto an aeroplane and heading away from a blossoming Kiwi summer into the depths of a British winter. 

So what exactly does Christmas in New Zealand feel like? As this is our third I do feel a bit more qualified to express and opinions. Not that the lack of a qualification has stopped me expressing an opinion in the past!

Well, there seems to be a lot less fuss around the festive period; less stress, no fretting over whether the correct gifts have been bought or if there is enough food in the cupboards to last through the wilderness of two days without a shop being open. It seems to be more about taking it easy, seeing friends and just going with the flow.

And it's rubbed off on us. We haven't even thought about what to eat on Christmas Day. It hasn't even crossed my mind. 'She'll be right' and in fact, in the time it has taken me to write this sentence, I have decided that we're going to have a barbecue - some nice meat, salad, maybe some roast Kumara. Easy as. There is still the option of Christmas pudding. Or ice cream. Or both.

So whilst I do miss the traditional Christmas - it feels appropriate to call it that - I don't miss the hassle, the weeks of preparation and the scrum that is supermarket shopping. It's nice to be able to really relax and not worry about it. The spend time spending time if you like.

And I know this makes us incredibly lucky, especially as the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend Christmas in the sun is coming around for a third time. Will there be a fourth? Who knows. Certainly not us. And so, if this is to be the last, we'd better make the most of it. Starting now..... there's a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge with my name on it.....

Right Wing Running

I suppose it was inevitable really and was bound to happen sooner rather than later, but I think I have become a running fascist. I know. But at least I have admitted it - which is surely the first step on the path to recovery?

The signs were always there, simmering under, but recently they have come crashing to the surface. It all started all so innocently, such as critiquing someone's running attire. Non-verbally of course - I am British after all. Surely that couldn't cause any harm. But now? I have an ever growing list of things that should be banned, limited, changed or controlled. So in no particular order, other than that in which they came to my mind;

Runners who run in races with headphones - I'm not such a control freak that I think anyone who's wears headphones whilst running is a moron, even if the even rules specifically ban them. I really don't care if they put themselves in harms way by not being able to hear traffic. Not one jot. No, what really ticks me off is when they suddenly decide to step in front on me as I'm passing. How rude. Surely a simple glance over the shoulder before you decide to change tack would help? 

Runners who spit on you - Following on from the entry above is a rather despicable subset of igornance. Running is, generally speaking, a mild mannered pastime and not known for bouts of aggression. Not like football, boxing or the rough and tumble world of crown bowls. But that doesn't mean you are immune for getting showered in another's bodily fluids. Thankfully it doesn't happen very often but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant when it happens. And it's not limited, like you might think, to the rougher of the two species. Only last week, when I was racing in Rotorua, just as I was passing a female runner she turned her head and unleashed, what can only be described as, a drenching. I know there are some that would pay good money for that but it's not my thing. She did apologise so that was all ok. Not!

Running with Dogs - If you want to take the dog for a walk don't do it in a race. Honestly is it too much to ask? And if you must, start at the back and stay there. I appreciate that it adds to the excitement of a running race, what with the headphoned lane changers and expectorating competitors, but having to suddenly jump over an outstretched lead because your four legged companion has suddenly decided to sniff a tree at the side of the course is just too much. And do you really need that 100m long lead? 

    Heap of runners just out of shot

Front runners - Whilst we're on the topic, not everyone can start at the front. I know it's exciting to be in a race but if you're not going to win (and that's most of us - honest) then start further back. It might just stop the congestion at the first corner and prevent the usual melee as faster runners collide with the slower competitors. And as for walkers. Yes you. You're welcome but get to the back. Sheesh.

Long socks - Now this is where it gets personal. I know there are some that believe that compression socks are medically advantageous, preventing strains and sprains. But they also make you look like a total tit. There is no form, male or female, that is improved by wearing socks up to your knees. And if you need proof, when did you last see, oh I don't know, Mo Farah wearing socks. Exactly. If you want to wear long socks when running go and live in a cold country.

    Good!

     Bad!

Grubby kit - Now this is limited to the male world of running. Can you do us all a favour and take a look in the mirror before you head out of the door. If your kit was first worn in 1975 it's probably past its best. Yes, I know it's comfortable but if it can stand up on its own then it's time to retire it. And just because it fit well in 1975 doesn't mean that is still the case. Just a tip, but if you can see your belly peeking from underneath the bottom of the once white garment, then you need a new shirt. Finally, just because there are no stains on the front, doesn't mean it's clean. Yellow is not mellow, if you catch my drift.

Cotton kills - Whilst we are on the topic of running attire, those jogging bottoms you bought for $10 really are not doing you any favours. Yes, I know they're called 'jogging' bottoms but for once the clue is not in the name. And that t-shirt. Yes, you may have bought it from a sports shop but if it's cotton then it's going to get very damp very quickly. And please don't be fooled, the Rocky Balboa look may look cool on young Sylvester Stallone but a sweat darkened shirt on a forty-something slightly overweight middle aged man is not good. Not one bit. 

    Tip - this is not what you look like

Running with phone in hand - What's all that about? At the end of a run I can hardly be bothered to hold my head up never mind clutch on to something in my hand. I know it shouldn't really matter to me, but if find it irksome. Buy a arm strap if you really can't be parted from your loved one during a run, but having it in your hand is potty. Or, and I appreciate this is a radical thought, try running without it. You won't faint, I promise. One of the joys of running is the mental peace that comes from popping on a pair of running shoes and getting out into the open air, listening to your heartbeat and just breathing. Go on, you know you want to.

Put it away - Yes, I know it's hot but there really is no need to run bare-chested. And why is it that the runners who feel the need to get their skin out are those that really shouldn't? It's an unnatural phenomenon. Go and get a good quality singlet and do us all a favour.

So there you have it, my gripes and bitchin' about running. And I know, it's not you it's me but I already feel better for getting it off my chest. It's going to be a long road back to tolerance but I'm going to try. All I ask is that, should you see a slightly grumpy white middle aged man tutting in your general direction, cut him a bit of slack. He's trying.

The Big Game

When two Goliaths of world sport meet, as they did today, everyone sits up and takes notice.

Thankfully the match lived up to the hype and both sides produced a scintillating and pulsating game. It more than made up for the 4:30am alarm call. Actually, that wasn't too bad as I had foolishly entered us into the Auckland Half Marathon and hadn't really put too much thought into what a 6:50am start meant. 

What it meant was that we had to wake up at 4:30am in order to dress, eat and travel across town and the harbour in time to drop the kit bag before heading to the start line. Idiot. I can't remember the last time I had to get up so early by choice.

But the silver lining was that I got to see the score unfold, for the early part of the big game at least, It would've been awful to miss the start and the early exchanges, even though I was only looking at numbers on a screen.

The timing was terrible. My mind wasn't on the race or the task ahead. Even the shock of the starting gun going wasn't enough to pull me from my deep thoughts. I was back in Blighty. Or to be more precise, in the capital where events were unfolding literally half a world away . Who was going to emerge as victors? Would early domination fade? The race was a distant consideration. As the kilometres ticked by, rather than my usual pacing calcs, I was wondering about scores, possession and ultimately victory.

Anyway to cut a long (21km) story short, the result went the way of the bookies. Well it had to, and I guess you already knew that. Yes, for once the result went to form and the Giants of the game came out on top. World order, for once, was upheld. 

Charlton didn't really stand a chance. Not against the mighty Boro. Even the three goal victory away from home hid the true nature of the game. A closer examination of the stats .....sorry? What's that? What rugby final? Of course I'm talking about football.

Seriously some people have a one track mind.......

No Sleeps

I've always thought that the measuring of the passage of time by counting the number of sleeps to be wholly unsatisfactory. Childish even. I mean, it's just not that accurate is it? I can appreciate that it might help to count down the days to an exciting event, such as birthdays, Christmas or even the launch of a new operating system but it doesn't work for me. Not in the least. 

Am I supposed to just count just the big sleeps? You know those where I actually put on pyjamas and get into bed. But even then that is flawed. What about Sunday afternoons? I have been known to retire to bed after a particularly hard run or big lunch. Or both. Including those would well skew the system. Should I count snoozes in a chair and if so, is that a whole sleep or just a quarter? Exactly how many nana-naps make a whole sleep? And what if I manage to sneak in a few winks at my desk? How many winks are there to a nana-nap? Forty I suppose. I think we need guidance. Maybe I will suggest this as a potential question for Jeremy Corbyn to raise.

So having established that counting sleeps to major events isn't going to cut the mustard, as it were, I can announce with almost certainty that there are now no sleeps to when my parents and sister arrive on these shores. Today is the day. And no sleeps is somewhat ironic because that's exactly what I've been getting these last few days. For some reason my circadian rhythm has gone haywire. I have been told before that I have no sense of rhythm but I always took that to mean my dubious skill on the guitar rather than the inner workings of my body clock. Maybe it has spread?

Anyway the upshot is that I have been waking at some unusual hours this past week with my mind running simultaneous scenarios. Sure some of it is work related - the curse of being a project manager - but mostly random, and it has to be said, seemingly innocuous problems. Such as how can I squeeze in another training run before the weekend? Should I rearrange my running shoe collection? Is it better by colour or age? What's the best combination of dinners this week to use up all of the veg? Do we have enough carrots to make minestrone soup? Should I make some soup? What time is it in Los Angeles? How long is a flight from LA to here? If it leaves at 9pm in LA, what time will it be in the UK when it arrives in New Zealand. Should I buy an occasional table for occasional use. What should it look like? Where can I buy it? Can I go at lunchtime? Aaarrrggghhh!

I could understand it if I was pondering the futility of human existence or trying to understand Einstein's theory of relativity but no, not me. My mind seems preoccupied with bringing order to my grocery collecting rather than the universe at large. Ah well, so be it.

Of course I blame my parents. They arrive today and it's like Christmas has come early - and to reinforce the effect they are bringing gifts. Well, I say gifts, but these are things that we ordered, had shipped to their house because we can't get them in New Zealand. But the effect is the same, and has only added to the excitement of the day. I'm hoping that when I see them, and we are relaxing at home this evening my body clock resets itself and I can get a good nights sleep. I'm sure that it will. Just as  I'm sure that a glass of wine or two will help me drift off to sleep this afternoon. A couple of winks or even half a nana-nap will do the trick. Maybe they are the same thing?

Yes, all will be put right once they step through the arrival gate.....I just hope they can get through customs with a super large tub of Marmite!

Should a Once Broken Hearted Guy Give a City a Second Chance?

Even though I've been in New Zealand for over fourteen months, this time around at least, I've only ever been to the capital once before. The previous time was part of a whirlwind 'tiki-tour' (you're going to have to look that one up) of this beautiful country and the experience was not good. If first impressions are as important as they are made out to be, then the fact that my over riding memory of Wellington is witnessing a bar fight tells you all you need to know about that maiden visit. And if you don't believe me you can experience the visit here. 

http://inthelandlongwhitecloud.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/wellington.html?m=1

So it came as a bit of a surprise, to me at least, when I suggested a trip to the capital to help celebrate by birthday. I had heard so many people tell me what a great little city it was, that I thought that either they were suffering from mass delusion or I had got it plain wrong. Obviously the former reason was the most likely but, hey, I'm an open minded guy. So with the promise of a great weekend away, and potentially the second bout of a great bar fight in mind we arrived in the second most famous Windy City. 

Second time around the experience couldn't have been more different. It really is a great wee city. Nestled in a natural harbour and surrounded by impressive hills, dotted with houses that  cling improbably to the precipitous slope, it really is a super location to build a city. You could be forgiven for thinking you were in the Italian riviera; sun glistening in the azure sea, golden stretches of beaches, scooters riding up and down the winding coastal road and more ice cream and coffee shops than you could shake a stick at. But, boy is it windy. In the taxi, on the way to the Parkrun, we were casually informed that this wasn't windy, it was a mere breeze and us Aucklanders are just soft and, quite frankly, Wellingtonians are sick of people telling them how windy it is thank you very much. Sorry I mentioned it. Wind or no wind, it was a beautiful day and with the sun beating down what great timing to spend some time in Wellington. And perfect conditions for Wellington to make amends.

I won't bore you with the details, but we rode on a cable car, wandered around the botanical gardens, sought sanctuary in a nature reserve, ate, drank from the brewery tap and were well and truly merry in wonderful Welly. 

It does make me wonder what went wrong last time. We're we too tired? Was it the weather? We're we just not in the mood? Or are we just more attuned to the city after having been in New Zealand for well over a year? Maybe all or just one of these hold the answer. 

Either way, what's done is done and is water under the bridge. But now if asked "Should a once broken hearted guy give a city a second chance?" then the answer has to be a resounding "yes! Of course! And beside what have you got to lose?"

Game Over

So there you have it, and I don't know why I was surprised really, as true-to-form England crash out of another tournament. Before it had began really. No doubt, back home, there will be pages and pages of analysis as to why we were not up to the mark in another game that we invented. Chances spurned and games lost.

And because of our untimely exit, I was expecting a rough ride in work on Monday. I really was. It was not so much the fact that we crashed out, but the manner of the defeat. Capitulation to lesser sides, as the press would have us believe. So there was that, and the fact that it was at the hands of the Aussies. Those two facts, or at least I thought, would condemn me to a day of misery and torment.

I assumed, wrongly, that there would be some kind of symbol laid out in jest for me when I turned the corner into my pod. Maybe a deflated rugby ball or a Kiwi flag? Nope. Nothing. Ahh, I thought, they're saving up the comments for the team meeting later this morning. Then I will really get it. I'll be like a cornered animal, unable to escape to the relative safety of the print room.

The meeting came and went without so much as a sideways glance or half-hidden snigger. Odd, I thought, but if not the meeting then when? Oh, how could I have forgotten? Of course, lunchtime! Yes, that's when it'll start. I'll just be tucking into my salad with pita bread and then it'll start. They know that with a gob full of green leaves I'll hardly be able to mount a comeback....

I had my lunch in peace and quite... well apart from the usual kitchen chatter; house prices in Auckland, the state of the dairy business, which flag is the best replacement and is a straight V8 really enough or would a V12 be better. 

It had reached mid afternoon and lunch was a distant memory but still not a word and it was making me anxious. This was getting ridiculous and it was becoming hard to concentrate on anything. Each passing minute only served to increase the tension as the moment of verbal assault was more likely to arrive. Yet nothing. Slowly tension gave way to disappointment - I'd been planning my witty responses all day. I didn't want to waste such pearls as "The referee was clearly out of his depth", "The Welsh were really lucky to stay on the park" or the particularly clever and subtle "Oh, go and stick you head up a cows..." I think you get the picture.

There was only one thing for it, I'd just have to pre-empt the onslaught. Crack the dam wall if you like. 

"Hey, I'm really surprised no one has mentioned the rugby", I offered and stood well back ready for the tirade of abuse. The response was somewhat surprising and much worse then I could ever have imagined.

"Oh, well we didn't think you would want to talk about it and didn't want to upset you", came the response. 

"What game?" came another, "Oh that? Nah it was a foregone conclusion. The Aussies were bound to win".

And that was that. Game over. End of.

I don't what I was expecting really. I don't even like rugby but some reaction would've been nice. You know a quick jibe or joke about how crap England were to put me at ease. Settle me down. But no. I had to spend the entire day waiting for the inevitable that just didn't happen. And it made me a little homesick. If there is one thing you can rely upon UK office friends for, and that is to kick you when you're down. At your lowest ebb? No problem. 'Ere take that! Thwok! A well aimed kick in the proverbials. Well, how else are they going to show that they care? 

A Thoroughly Modern Bully

If common wisdom is true, and the first step to recovery is admitting that there is a problem, then I am about to make a Neil Armstrong sized breakthrough. Which is my rather circuitous way of telling you that I am being bullied. Gosh, I do feel a whole lot better. Right, best foot forward and on with the therapy. Which is, ironically, the problem. Putting a foot forward that is. Or to be more accurate putting another foot in front of the other. What? Oh, I'm talking about steps. Steps. Steps. Seemingly there's just not enough of them.

You see it all started innocently enough, with the purchase of a new running watch. No, of course not a watch that could run but a watch to use whilst running. Can I continue? Thank you. So I have recently purchased a watch to use whilst running as a replacement to the one I had that has expired. It's time had come so to speak. Little did I know that I had just entered a while new world of pain and anguish. This new watch has a hidden function, one that was unsurprisingly hidden from me at the time of purchase, and that is to torture and ridicule its wearer. It is, to put it more plainly, an evil watch. You see it counts your steps. Incessantly. This wasn't mentioned on the packaging or the brightly colour advert in the running magazine. No, of course not a magazine that runs, but a magazine devoted to running. Sheesh. Well devoted to running and, as it turns out, the dark arts. 

Not only does it count steps but it sends a message, along with a vibrating alert, when you haven't moved for a while. I can only assume that the manufacturers couldn't figure out a way to accompany this alert with an electric shock without completely depleting the battery. 

This was fun at first. A bit of a novelty. I'd be sat at work....working...and then get a gentle reminder that it has been nearly an hour since I'd stood up. So, In response to the reminders, I casually get up and go for a walk and speak to colleagues who, unaware I am obeying my watch, presumably think I've suddenly become a lot chattier these days.

The honeymoon period did not last long and I've seen through its friendly facade. Not only does it count steps and remind you when you've not moved in a while, but it also sets you a daily goal. "How lovely, I like a challenge", I hear you think. Well here's the thing. When you reach your daily challenge, the next time it's a bit more. Not much - a hundred steps or so - but more. Then more. And more. Each day getting increasingly harder to meet the target and please the master..... sorry watch. The watch is a fascist, a bully and impossible to satisfy.

I've now come to the conclusion that the watch was made by Satan himself. Let's review the simple fact - what is the point of putting a step counter into a running watch? If the point is to motivate the wearer into being more active, then surely the fact that it is worn WHILST RUNNING is surely enough. Runners aren't exactly known for their fondness for the couch, unless it is, or course, after a long run. Today is a perfect example of that. I have ran 15km today and well and truly met my step target for today. In fact I had met it by the time I had arrived at the start line on Devonport. And it had truly been smashed by the time I got home. There was absolutely no way the master.....sorry watch....could be displeased with that. So there I was, resting on the couch with a cup of tea, feeling pleased with myself for being so active, when the all too familiar buzz was felt on my wrist. 'MOVE' was flashing on the small screen and it had gone red, presumably to highlight it's anger towards me. How dare I? How dare I sit there and relax with a cup of tea when I should be up and about. Presumably, watch the watch wanted to say was 'STOP SITTING AROUND ON YOUR FAT ARSE DRINKING TEA YOU LAZY GIT. YOU'VE ONLY RAN 15km. GET UP. YOU ARE SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME'. I can only thank mercy for the limited screen space.

Was there no pleasing it? This thing was impossible. But deep down, I knew it was right. I have, after all, only done 24,483 steps today and there are plenty of hours left. What am I doing? I'm wasting my life away sitting here drinking tea. Whilst it's still light I'm going to get out there and do some more - oh and there's a torch in the hall drawer so I could maybe squeeze in some more steps after dinner. Yes - I'll show it who's boss......

Hibernation

It's about time I went into hibernation. I know that it's spring - maybe it's my northern hemisphere upbringing that's causing this - but I really need to get my head down. Or should that be 'keep' my head down. Tired? No not at all. Bloody rugby. 

Yes, the spectacle of the Rubgy World Cup is looming and apparently New Zealand are a decent side. Not that you would know that from this side of the world. It's hardly mentioned....... And in case you were wondering, that was sarcasm. I can live with the papers getting all excited, they are easy to avoid, as are promos on TV. But this morning I was treated to this image when I opened the fridge at work. No that's not oil. It's milk. In black milk cartons. Sorry All Black milk cartons.

But bloody rugby. Hardly the beautiful game. Not that association football is the beautiful game either. No, I've been to far too many cold and wet torrid games to ever call it that. Sure, there are moments of inspiration and brilliance but they are few and far between. Yes, before you say it, I've only got myself to blame. Supporting Middlesbrough was never going to be easy. And to paraphrase Harry Pearson, there's a reason the grass is so green at the Riverside......it's because of all the shit that's been on it!

Anyway I am, as they like to say in management meetings, off topic. Back to rugby. What an odd game. Admittedly I am pre-disposed to dislike it. I truly am. Well, as you asked, we played it at school and Henry Smith was a rugby school. Not that this was ever debated, put to the vote and agreed, of course, it just seemed to have been decreed by the dictator, sorry PE head teacher, Mr Dee. It was inevitable as he had, allegedly, played at internationall level and what better way to demonstrate your love of the game you used to play than to get twenty-odd (I love it so much that I'm not even sure how many people are on a team) kids to beat the living shite out of each other on a Wednesday morning. Thinking back, it wasn't even that. Rather than pick two relatively even matched sides to play, surely it's much more sporting to pit the school first eleven against much weaker opposition. ie the rest of us. And to add insult to inevitable injury, chastise the weaker side for not trying hard enough. "You're making it too easy for them!," came the shout followed by "Put your back into it" and "Stop bleeding on the pitch you useless twerp!". Ahh, school days. It's no wonder I took up running in later life.

There was, it has to be said, a few times that he may have had a point. Sort of. After weeks of getting battered it soon became obvious that if you were no where near the ball then the chances of getting clobbered were dramatically reduced. Not a great tactic for winning the game, but without equal for getting off the pitch with the most number of limbs intact. Avoidance tactics did lead to some memorable moments, such as kids actively running away from the ball when it was hoisted into the air as if it were a huge peanut and they all had a chronic allergy to nutty substances. Unfortunately the fascist state, as we liked to call them, cottoned on to the avoidance strategy and warned us that anyone with clean knees at the end of the beating...sorry game... would be subjected to further physical punishment. Queue then comical images of a team of rugby players walking around on their knees trying to find the sloppiest muddy puddle to prove their participation and innocence. Not an easy feat on a frozen pitch in the north east of England.

So I don't like rugby. And it has to be said that this is a slight disadvantage when living in New Zealand. They are quite different fond of it. You may have noticed. So in an attempt to integrate further into kiwi society we decided that we had to embrace the game. And what better way to fan the flames of our passion than to get tickets for an All Black game. In fact it was one better than that. It was the All Blacks against the Aussies in the final game of the Bledisloe Cup. It was bound to be a 'ripper'....

The full time whistle couldn't come soon enough. What a boring, pointless game. Nothing seemed to happen. I could give you a detailed match report but it'd be too much. Okay, go on, I'll give it a go. Well, a big bloke kicked the ball in the air as hard as he could and then everyone ran after it. It bounced funny, because it's not round, but someone managed to grab it before the rest of the pack jumped on him. He then ran off and when they got near he kicked it in the air as far as he could and they all ran after it. This was repeated several times until someone had had enough. Then they all stood around and after a while they had a hug, a bit of a rest and then it started again. Fascinating but I can't imagine feeling bone weary bored had I seen some of the worlds best football teams play. Take your pick; Brazil, Argentina, Spain, Germany, Juventus, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and Accrington Stanley. What? Okay so maybe not Spain. But the rest - world class!

So I have decided that, after seeing two of the worlds best teams play and still being bored out of my skull, rugby is not for me. You can't say haven't tried. I really have. On the Monday morning, around the coffee machine I thought I'd try and find our what the rest of the office thought. Maybe it was a bad game after all. Maybe this was the equivalent of a boring one sided thrashing or a 0-0 draw and a drab Tuesday night. "Oh! What a brilliant game", said one. "It was a tactical showpiece," came another. "Wasn't it a bit....well.....boring", said another. Wait! Oh no! That was me! I'd just committed the cardinal sin and dissed the national sport and the national side. I couldn't help it. The words just popped out. Unannounced like. 

I must say they took it rather well. All things being considered. They shrugged it off as another Brit who was jealous of the all conquering All Blacks. No hard feelings. At least I don't think so, although my coffee hasn't quite tasted the same since. Somehow a bit creamier?

Tell Me Why?..........

If there is one thing that living in a new country has taught me it's that Monday mornings are still Monday mornings. And by extrapolation, Sunday evening are still Sunday evenings. 

Yes, the spectre of Monday morning is slowly stretching its shadowy hand over the remnants of Sunday evening as slowly we slide into another working week. And it got me to thinking. When does the weekend actually end? I know in theory that it ends with the book being closed, the alarm clock being set and the light turning out but that's not really true is it? Nope, the weekend actually ends much earlier than that when the working day routine slowly starts to gear up. There's lunches to be made, bags to be packed, baths to be had and diaries to be checked. These signallers of the week to come are also the tasks that kill off the weekend. And boy are they good at their job. 

Maybe the answer to the pending Monday blues is to go out on the lash on Sunday night. You know, really stick the fingers up to The Man and in a final act of rebellion get stinkingly drunk shouting "Ha-ha! You'll never take me alive you b'stard!". But both you and I know that's just not going to happen. Oh my god, the thought of starting a week of work with a hangover. I'm shuddering at the thought.

Okay, so maybe not going on the lash. Perhaps a night out at the cinema. Yes! That's it! There's no need to get blindingly drunk to have a good time. I appreciate it's a strange concept but it is entirely possible to enjoy one's self without the use of alcohol. Or so I am told. Ahh, but wait. The cinema won't work either. That will mean getting to bed really, really late. Gone 9pm. Practically an all nighter. The thought of starting a working week tired is not something I would like to consider thank you very much. Even if I were to wear my pyjamas under my clothes, by the time I got out of the cinema, walked home and peeled off a few layers it'd be far too late. Nope the cinema is definitely out.

How about going for a nice meal? A sort of celebratory feast. Yes, that's the ticket....nope.....wait......I can't sleep on a full stomach. A restless night is not what the doctor ordered. Scratch that then. 

I'll just have to grin and bear it - apply a good dose of that stiff upper lip we are supposedly famous for and get through it. It's coming whether I like it or not. Looking back, I always get through them and by the time my first coffee of the day has injected the much needed caffeine into my blood stream I've forgotten all about the ordeal. But sitting here, staring from the wrong side, it just seems....well so unfair. After spending a relaxing day strolling along on a beach, relaxing in a park or idling some time away in a cafe it just doesn't seen right to be dragged back down to earth by having to go to work. Boooo! I say. Booo with knobs on!

I can here the critisisms from here, "Oh, hark at him. Sitting there with his mild weather with spring on the way. Luxury!" But don't you see - that makes it worse! Having nice weather (although at the moment it is raining like a bastard) and beaches and parks on tap makes it all the more difficult to drag my lazy bum into work come Monday morning. And I do, of course, know that some reading this are not as lucky to have such a regular working pattern. I should count myself very lucky to have a job at all. I know. I know. And I do. Count myself lucky that is, and can only apologise if this whole blog sounds a little bit like a whinging spoilt child. I'm sorry and will try harder......but it doesn't stop Sunday evening being a total and utter bummer.

Anniversary

Anniversaries are a strange thing. Giving pause to look back; challenges overcome, moments experienced and achievements.... errr.... achieved. Very rarely do they make one look ahead. Which is probably a good thing. Who knows what the reaction would be. No, best stick with the past. For one it's a lot clearer and for another it's done. No more energy required. Completed.

So why this sudden urge to be all retrospective? Well just a few days ago we passed our first anniversary of being in New Zealand. I know, I can hardly believe it myself. A whole year. Gone. Just like that. In fact, we'd already passed some other significant milestones on the way to this one; one year since quitting our UK jobs, one year since we moved out of our house, one year since we started sofa surfing and a year since we took off and left UK soil. 

We celebrated our first anniversary by walking to the Domain and having an ice cream, just like we did on our first weekend proper in Auckland. We looked around as we licked our salted caramel treats, and saw ourselves in the same place a year ago, remembering being amazed we'd made it this far..... and had the same feeling. Weren't we just the coolest cats?

So at the risk of sounding like one of those New Year television programs - you know the ones that review the events of the past twelve months - here are some of the highlights and lowlights;

Highlights

• Finding a lovely place to live 
• Meeting up with friends
• Sitting on Auckland's stunning beaches
• Settling in to a new workplace and making new friends
• The climate
• Kiwis
• Out stuff arriving from the UK - in one piece. 
• Sneaky side trips - Sydney for a weekend!
• Tahiti
• The Kepler Track
• 'Discovering' Moa beer
• Elbow at the Powerstation
• Joining a new running club
• Rekindling a love for the cinema (could be just the wine though)
• The regional and local parks
• Flowers
• Birds
• Mountains
• Lakes
• and of course pies

Lowlights

• Saying goodbye to friends and family
• Living out of a suitcase for two months
• Saying goodbye to new friends.
• Auckland rain (not very often but boy can it rain)
• Finding a lovely, but sometimes cold, place to live in
• Having to work for a living when it feels like we should be on holiday
• Actually looking forward to going to work when it's either too hot or too cold at home.
• The TV programmes - OMG what are they thinking?

And many more. It's like the past year just passed in front of my eyes.  So what now? What will the coming twelve months bring? One thing is for certain, it's going to be interesting....

Stranded!

Now I can appreciate that most people would view being stranded on a tropical island as not a particularly huge problem, assuming of course that there was a plentiful supply of water, food and wifi, but I am. And it is actually thank you very much.

Putting aside the fact that no-one is going to believe me, especially my work colleagues, it has put a crimp on my plans. Being in work tomorrow for one and having clean clothes. And the day was going all so well....

After a lovely morning lounging around we finally got ourselves ready, breakfasted and headed around the island towards the airport. After stopping a few times en-route (see how I cleverly slipped a bit of French in there!) to admire the view of the lagoon and the waves breaking out at sea on the coral barrier, we arrived at the airport far too early - even for us. We have a habit of overestimating how long things are going to take; driving to the airport, dropping of the hire car, checking in and so forth that we usually spend a good chunk of our holiday actually in the airport, wandering around and chastising ourselves, once again, for setting off far too early. Today was no exception, although our arrival was hastened by the fact that it had decided to rain hard and that, it being a Sunday an' all, there were no restaurants open for business. With nearly four hours to kill we were certainly in no danger of missing our flight. At least we were in the shelter of the airport whilst a rain storm of biblical proportions played out outside.

But it was all good - we had some snacks, reading matter and a comfortable seat. Which was a good job as we were about to find out. Now don't get me wrong, I quite like airport departure lounges. As well as the anticipation of a journey yet to take, there are shops, cafes and people. People watching is one of the most entertaining things to do in departure lounges. They are a weird bunch. Take the guy, for example, who was fashioning a 'rat's tail' hair cut and was wearing a t-shirt that broadly boasted 'This is my going out shirt'. Or at least that's what I think it said. It was hard to tell with the martial being stretched to breaking point across his beer belly. I wonder if his wife liked it? She was a very slim and attractive southeast Asian woman. Now I'm not going to jump to any conclusions so I'll stop right there. There was also the usual couple who, when faced with the news that their bags were over the weight limit, proceeded to argue their case with the terminal staff. It wasn't going well and I have to say that questioning their parenthood was not perhaps the most tactful approach. After at least thirty minutes they accepted defeat and coughed up, all the while mumbling about having flown all around the world and suggesting that Air New Zealand were once part of the Third Reich. The ironic thing, and it wasn't wasted on the rest of the queue judging by the looks they were getting, was that they were in the Express Check-In lane.

Yes, time was passing nicely and it was nearly our allotted boarding time. But something was up. The plane that we were supposed to be getting on was not on its stand. Ah, but the board still had the flight showing as being on time so all was good. Back to the people....

Now I'm no expert in aviation planning but I do suspect that you actually need an aeroplane to get onto in order to begin boarding. It would be a horrible charade otherwise. Our boarding time had been and gone and we were still sat, on the thankfully comfortable, departure lounge seats. We had now been in the airport for four hours. Those who were observant, or had been there so long that they had internalised the staffing schedule, would have noticed an increase activity at the rear of the room. Something was definitely up. And that, as it turns out, was the problem. The incoming plane was not able to land due to poor visibility. Okay, it was a little damp, but enough to not be able to land a modern jet plane? If planes couldn't land in the UK due to wet weather then we'd have less flights than a small island in the South Pacific and Heathrow be a backwater facility. Which would be nice for the residents. Anyway, the aeroplane had been diverted to neighbouring Rarotonga to determine what to do next. Fit some wiper blades maybe? If we felt bad, just consider the passengers on the incoming flight - as first days of a holiday go, being sat on an aeroplane whist your fate is decided is not the best start. Even if the plane is on the runway in a tropical island.

The news, when it came was not good. They were going to take off and go back to Auckland where the weather was more conducive to landing a sophisticated aircraft thank you very much. They might try again tomorrow. Tomorrow? What's wrong with this evening? The rain had actually stopped and the stars were clearly visible. 

We'd now been in the airport for nearly six hours. It had been so long that I was considering getting a part time job - I felt that by now I knew the workings of the airport better then most and besides it would help pass the time and bring a little more money in.

Just as I was formulating my interview responses we were told to collect our bags, return through immigration - I don't know why because we hadn't actually gone anywhere - and get onto a shuttle bus which would take us to a hotel. Which it did. Eventually.

So here we are. Roughing it in a five star hotel, in a suite that is bigger than our house in Auckland, a private balcony, cool air conditioning and a minibar stocked with tiny drinks. Or at least it was stocked. As places to wait it's not bad. I might have a dip in the pool later, or maybe go to the spa. Choices, choices. 

But despite all that, it's not where I was supposed to be and that's annoying. If I'd have wanted an extra day's holiday it wouldn't have been this. Does that make me ungrateful? Probably. But there is nothing I can do about it. I can no more influence the flight of an aircraft than I can direct a light opera. So I'm just going to have to sit back, relax and make the most of an extra day in Tahiti. Life's a bitch.

We've just heard that we might be departing at 7pm this evening, only 1 day, 1 hour and 25 minutes later than scheduled. Now that's a record that Nerwork Rail would be proud of!

A Time Traveller's Tale

There can't be many holiday itineraries that promise, not only respite from the worst of the winter weather, but also an opportunity to step backwards in time. You see on this trip we were flying to Tahiti from Auckland; leaving on Wednesday morning but arriving on Tuesday evening. Indeed, the strangeness was brought home when we were sat eating our evening meal on Tuesday night I remarked "Just think, we will have arrived in Tahiti this time today". It was an interesting prospect but one which I was strangely apprehensive about - although I'm quite fond of Tuesdays the thought of have two in a row was a little unnerving.

Well I'm glad to report that the space-time continuum has not been damaged and through the vagaries of the international date line, we arrived in Tahiti in one piece and, thanks to a strong tail wind, ahead of schedule and fifteen hours before we took off. Not bad for a four hour flight - I even managed to fit a movie in!

Ironically though, arriving in Tahiti is very much like time travel. Whilst it could be argued that New Zealand is a microcosm of European life, albeit with a Pacifica twist and better weather, Tahiti is in a world of its own. Other than the occasional Carrefour supermarket, there are no familiar points of reference. 

Being plunged into the mayhem that was unfolding in downtown Papeete in a hire car, with a manual gearbox and driving on the opposite side of the road increased the feeling of disconnection from....well....modern life. The drive was an experience I'd rather not repeat. By the time we left the airport, not only had it suddenly gone dark but it was twenty six degrees and was raining. It was like getting a warm shower. But fully clothed. 

After successfully negotiating the urban traffic, narrowly avoiding the numerous cars that appeared to enter the road in front from nowhere, we were on our way. It was only forty five minutes to our lagoon-side villa but it felt much longer. Now, as well as magically appearing vehicles, I had to contend with random maniac dogs who liked to chase hire cars, pedestrians with a death wish and cyclists riding head-on into traffic to whom lights are a mystery. At one point we passed a cyclist who had decided that the best way to increase his personal danger would be to, and I believe this is the correct term, pop a wheelie for his entire journey. We know this to be true because, as it turns out, his bike didn't have a front wheel! Now I know that most people raised outside the UK think we are too safety conscious but even they might stop to think about taking a bike back from work with a FRONT WHEEL MISSING!!! Well at least it saves on tyres I suppose.

Thankfully we arrived at our villa without hitting a human, dog or errant cyclist. And although it was dark we could already tell it was worth it; coconut juice was in the fridge, the small plunge pool glistened in the moonlight and the crabs were darting across the lawn to safety. Yes crabs. In the lawn. Who needs moles when you have handy subterranean crustaceans. As second Tuesday's go, it was pretty eventful.

We've only been away from Auckland for a few days but the pace of life here us such that it feels like an eternity. In a good way. Unfortunately I know that on Sunday we will have to leave and head back to reality. Back to the future if you like. Which will be a real shame. The only silver lining is that we skip Monday.  Now there's a day that I can truly do without!

You Can Call Me Al

One of the unexpected perks of being able to walk to work, other than an opportunity to witness first hand the manic Auckland morning ballet that is car borne commuting, is to brush shoulders with a true star. Well not quite brush shoulders - that would be rude - but certainly exist in the same space. On the same side of the street even. But I like to think of it as, not just two people who pass on the street, but kindred spirits who are at opposite ends of their prospective journeys. Metaphorically and physically speaking.

You see every morning, usually around the same time and place, I pass none other than Al Pacino. I know! It's amazing isn't it! Al Pacino, star of countless classic movies, Academy Award Winner and thoroughly nice chap, passes me in the street. Just typing these words gives me goosebumps. Obviously, I'd rather it was Robert De Niro but, hey, beggars can't be choosers. And besides Al, as I like to call him, is almost as good.

Quite what Al Pacino is doing cutting people's hair in a suburb of Auckland is beyond me. Maybe he's researching for a new film where the central character is a barber? Or an ex-mobster barber in the witness protection programme? It makes sense. Just think about all those juicy snippets of gossip a barber hears on a daily basis.....

Ok, I'll come clean, it's a fair cop. It's not actually Al Pacino but someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to the second best star of the silver screen. Not only that, as if that wasn't enough, but Al has clearly gone out of his way to look like Al. If you know what I mean. This guy is more Al Pacino than Al Pacino. Except less shouty. In fact silent. Although I think even the Al Pacino would draw the line  at wearing a dress shirt with his own image printed as a repeating pattern. If it's to reinforce just how much like Al Pacino, Al looks then it's not needed. It really isn't. And, I know it's sunny in Auckland, but sunglasses even on a cloudy day are a little over the top. A smidge. The overall effect though is so convincing, that sometimes I forget, and have to fight the urge to shout "Hoo-ha" in his face before rudely asking for his autograph. 

If this is the closest I get to meeting Al Pacino, the real one, then it's a good second best. And pretty handy really.  I'd imagine the having to travel halfway around the world to meet the real deal would take the shine off the experience; what with the jet lag and everything. If you think about it, passing-by somebody who looks like Al Pacino, somebody who embodies everything that Al stands for, on a daily basis surely is better than a single meeting with the original? I'm not sure if there is an official ratio for such a thing. But if there isn't - there should be. 

Anyway I'm very happy with the Al doppelgänger. Passing him always puts a smile on my face, brightens up the walk to work and puts me in a New York frame of mind. Now if I could only find a Bobby De Niro look-a-like my journey to work would be perfect....

 

A Real Rib Tickler

It's lucky I enjoy it. It really is. If I didn't I'd have to wonder why I did it because when you think about it, you know from a distance and in the cold light of day, it's a bit odd.

Sorry? Oh, I'm talking about running of course. Yes we all run from time to time, but it is usually out of necessity; to catch a bus, to cross the road without getting knocked down or to catch up with someone ahead of you. Or conversely, to run away from someone or something. Which reminds me of a photograph of sign I saw in a magazine. This particular sign was nailed to the post of a field gate and posed the question "Can you cross this field in less than 12 seconds? No? Well the bull can!" Very droll but I have digressed.

Yes most of us only run when it us absolutely necessary. The more mobile option of the fight or flee instinct if you like. So how odd is it to get up early on a cold Sunday morning, begrudgingly eat a bowl of porridge before driving to a nearby forest and run around in circles for an hour or so with other like minded strangers. Odd? Yes, very. And this Sunday we had even paid for the privilege. Sheer lunacy.

And so it was that we arrived in Totara Forestry, a spit and a hip from Auckland centre, to run around the forest trails  looking like a pack of demented and lost hikers. Except wearing less clothes than would be ordinarily advisable. 

The 11k route was one of the more gentler races in this season's Xterra calendar so I was fully expecting to break the hour mark. That was my target and by george I was going to break it. About 6k in, it was all going reasonably well. It had been a slow start due to the sheer numbers of fellow lunatics on the course but the first incline of the morning had thinned the pack down and I was now making much quicker progress. Although it was going to be close, I was confident of meeting my target. Heck, I was even starting to enjoy myself; the sun was shining, the scenery was stunning and the horrors of an early alarm call were a distant memory.

After negotiating a few potentially treacherous cattle girds, I came to the top of a lovely, wide grassy downhill. "Now I can make up a bit more time," I thought to myself before launching myself down the slope. Picking up speed and passing less adventurous souls, or losers as I like to call them, I suddenly realised my mistake. There was a horrid muddy patch about half way down the hill and I was heading for it with wild abandon. I had no hope of stopping - I'd just reached a speed that would've made a particularly fast cheetah jealous - and was technically out of control. "Don't worry Graeme," I thought, "all those years of mountain bike experience will see you through."

It did. But I'd forgotten that "all those years of mountain bike experience" usually involved me hurtling downhill at high speed and hitting a less moveable object. Although I did once have to make an evasive manoeuvre and jump over a rather startled sheep. But that is a whole different story. 

Now I'm not the most graceful runner at the best of times, as some race photographs will attest, with my right leg seemingly having a mind of its own, but hitting a muddy patch at Mach 3 would test even the most highly trained and ballerina-esque athlete. Instantly my legs decided they wanted to go in a whole different direction to my upper body, whilst my upper body concentrated on staying upright. Meanwhile my utterly confused arms had decided to emulate a particularly energetic windmill. On speed. But I was upright and nearly halfway through the muddy slop. God knows what it looked like to the spectators - maybe they wondered if this was part of the entertainment - but my deranged ballerina act was getting me through. Then it happened. My feet found a stable patch of ground and immediately sent my legs in a different direction. My upper half just couldn't cope with this new instruction and resolutely stayed on the same trajectory. In objection my feet went sideways, presumably to teach my insubordinate upper half a lesson, and I lost balance and hurled through the air. "This is going to be interesting," I thought as I landed on my side and slid down the hill. "Well this is better then I could've expected," I thought, adding "and it might actually improve my time!" What I hadn't seen was that I was rapidly approaching a fence and that I was slowly turning sideways.... 

If there is one thing you should know about fences, it is that they are largely immovable objects. And if there is one thing you should know about the human body, it is that when faced with the aforesaid immovable object, the immovable object is likely to come off better. Significantly better as it turns out. I hit the fence with a sickening thud and came to an abrupt halt. Miraculously, although it did hurt, I was in one piece and not sliced Tex Avery style into hundreds of potato-like chips. My first thought was "Thank goodness. I haven't wasted a lot of time!" I got up, checked my feet were still facing the same way and commenced running once again.

The incident was soon behind me and the four remaining kilometres started ticking off. But there was a problem. My side, the one that had bravely faced down the fence, was starting to grumble. The grumble soon became an ache and, disappointingly predictable, the ache became a pain. It slowed my progress but I was determined to keep going. I was going to break the hour mark, no matter what.

I kept running and regularly checking my time against progress. But even before the tenth kilometre was completed I knew it was a lost cause. I crossed the line, winning a spot prize for the most painful expression, and slumped onto the ground. Rather than thank me for stopping, my ribs howled in pain for me being a total idiot. What was I thinking?

Fractured ribs are going to keep my out of action for a while. I thought this running lark was supposed to be good for you? Recovery is going to be slow and painful but at least I've got something to look forward to..... the next race is the series is only three weeks away and it looks like a fast course. Excellent.

Oh, and my time for the last event? 1 hour and 38 seconds. If only I'd slid a little faster....

A Cold Snap

I'm never going to complain about being to hot ever again. If I even remotely hint at a whinge about the heat I give you permission to clip me about the head.

So why this open invite to physical abuse? Well for those of you not tuned to the Southern Hemisphere weather reports, New Zealand is going through a bit of a cold snap. 'Big deal!' I hear you think before adding 'So it's got a bit cool has it? What, you might even have to put a cardy on?' The sarcasm would be fully justified, except it is proper cold, even in the normally balmy Auckland.

OK, so maybe it hasn't hit 20 degrees below, like it did in the South Island - which you must admit is a little on the chilly side. At that temperature even Geordies might be tempted to put on a jacket. Only a summer weight one mind and then adding, 'It's not as if it's cold like. It's just somewhere to put me keys'. No, so it maybe not quite Arctic.... I beg your pardon Antarctic weather but Auckland has been getting down as low as 5 degrees at night. I know, but before you start accusing me of turning into a southern ponce, just hear me out....

Firstly, five degrees is cold for Auckland. Almost frosty in fact. Any colder and the powers that be would be seriously considering investing in a gritter. Admittedly, the temperatures get up to around 14 degrees during the day but by-eck the nights are cold.

Secondly the houses are, in general, not insulated. We all live in, what can only be described as, sheds. Wooden walls, single glazed windows and corrugated tin roofs. Great for the summer but fuck all use when the weather turns cold. Which it has. Mind you, these are £1m sheds and not something that you can pick up from B&Q. Or rather Mitre10. But despite the eye-watering price tag, when the temperature drops, it's almost warmer outside. 

Thirdly, not that you needed anymore convincing I'm sure, there is no central heating. In some cases house owners have installed a contraption called a heat pump (think hot and cold air blower fitted to the wall and you'd be somewhere close) and this is the sole source of heating. Others, such as the one we reside in, has nowt. Other than the two portable electric heaters we bought last week, we rely on layers of clothes and moving around a lot. It's good exercise but very tiring at the same time. Meal times can be a little hazardous with all that moving about keeping warm - soup is definitely off the menu after the scolding incident last night. Experts tell you that heat pumps are very efficient. They have to be because most of the heat they generate pisses out of the single glazed windows and un-insulated walls. Thankfully New Zealand gets a lot of its electricity from geothermal power so it's not the environmental disaster it could be.

Are you convinced? No? Well how about that for the last two nights, even with the heaters in full blast, our living room managed to get up to a practically stifling ten degrees. It was so warm I had to take one of my three jumpers off. 

On the positive side, I'm very clean. The bath or shower is the warmest place to be at the moment. Not looking forward to our next water bill though, and I'm starting to resemble a prune. But it's worth it for a quick defrost. The other positive is that I'm getting through a lot of work at the moment - getting a flyer at 4:30 has lost its appeal somewhat. Even on a Friday. 'Don't you have a home to go to?,' come the witty remarks. 'Actually no - I have a shed in the middle of the street!'. Luxury.

A Week In Oz - Parklife

I Have I told you how fantastic the Parkrun phenomenon is? No? Well it's a phenomenon. In every sense of that word. It's incredible to think that, what started as a favour an injured runner did for his mates in a park in London, has resulted in us travelling across Sydney at 7:30am to take part in a run.

Well trying to travel across Sydney. Unfortunately Sydney Transport has decided to chose this particular morning to close down the urban trains for, what I imagine is quoted as, essential maintenance. 

Not to be outdone, and miss out on a chance to register another different continent's Parkrun, we ended up running the last 1.2km to the start of the run. How ironic. At least it was a suitable warm up. 

But what a wonderfully way to meet with other runners and residents of the host town. It does feel strange when the run manager asks if there are any visitors from another town, as they always do prior to the start of a run, raising a hand and saying 'Yes, Auckland'. How did that happen? Odd, but in a good way I guess.

Either way we get to feel smug all day from having done some exercise. Not that we needed it particularly - we've clocked in an average of 15km per day whilst on holiday. Admittedly, we've eaten our own weight in cheese and ham sandwiches and drank enough alcohol to last a lifetime, but it's swings and roundabouts innit!

It's with some regret that tomorrow we head home to Auckland. There it is again! Home to Auckland. Home to New Zealand. How did that happen? To think we've been over here for nearly twelve months and it still makes me pause to take it all in. 

But for the time being we're in Sydney and I think we owe it too ourselves for one more look at the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. And maybe another glass of wine. Just the one mind you. Well perhaps two - it is our last night after all.